


The Carriage Held

by Sir Elliot (SirElliot)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Gen, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Horcruxes, Humor, OotP AU, Order of the Phoenix AU, Sane Voldemort, Suicide Attempt, Under the Influence of Horcruxes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 21:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 143,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5601229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirElliot/pseuds/Sir%20Elliot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dark Lord lingers. Severus spirals. Did Harry Potter ever truly exist at all?</p><p>[Severus Snape splits his time between the war effort, a mysterious plot hatched by his students, the ever nefarious Dolores Umbridge, and the physical and mental well-being of Harry Potter. The last one turns out to be even more difficult than it sounds. </p><p>And then things take a turn for the worse. </p><p>OotP AU in which it turns out the Dark Lord had more than one way to return from the dead, and Severus discovers just how far he has left to fall. Expect dark humor, a liberal dose of angst, and plenty of Severus Snape's personal opinions.</p><p>Other things to look forward to in this fic include: Dolores Umbridge's frankly deeply disturbing crush on Severus Snape, Minerva and Severus as best bros, Albus Dumbledore as a really bad prankster, Lucius Malfoy as a poncy git, Kreacher the house-elf, a Harry Potter who seems more and more different every day, a surprisingly pragmatic Hermione Granger, and a Severus Snape who for some reason can't stop dreaming about the Dark Lord.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Harry Learns to Fly

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for language and mature themes. Seriously, there is a lot of swearing in this. 
> 
> This fic updates every Sunday.
> 
> Buckle up, kids. You're in for a wild ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been revised as of May 24th, 2017.

The boy was dead. He may still have been breathing, he may have been idly chatting with his friends, pushing food around his plate, and generally making a nuisance of himself, but when our eyes met… I knew.

Harry Potter was dead. Perhaps not physically, but nonetheless.

"Minerva," I murmured to the woman in the chair next to mine. She looked up at me, eyebrows slightly raised. Perhaps I hadn't been the most chatty of dinner companions lately, it was true, but she had no need to look so shocked to hear my voice. How anyone could converse casually, with that loathsome toad sitting just a few seats down, frankly astounded me.

"Yes, Severus?" she prompted, perhaps noting my distraction. She was one of the more insightful of my colleagues.

"Have you noticed anything… off… about Potter lately?" I tried to keep my tone neutral, my voice hushed so that Umbridge would not overhear. She, of course, was loudly telling poor Pomona all about what sorts of plants she thought ought not to be taught at Hogwarts. As if she had any say in that.

"Whatever do you mean?" She followed my gaze down to the Gryffindor table, where Potter appeared to be happily chatting with his friends, albeit less enthusiastically than he would have been last year. Unsurprising, given the resurrection of the most feared dark lord of the past fifty years; one who personally wanted Potter dead.

"Look at him," I urged, keeping my voice low. Whether or not she would see what I saw, I had no idea. I knew I had to try. I felt the sickly feeling that the fate of the world depended on it, or some such rubbish. At the very least, she was looking now.

"He's quieter than last year," she noted softly. "I'm not surprised. That boy is dealing with a lot right now."

That was an understatement. I had seen the scar on the back of his hand in our last potions class. Hardly into the term and already Umbridge (for who else could it be) was using a blood quill on him. No, it was no surprise that he was quieter. But the look in his eyes… I had seen that look before. On the more long-term inmates in Azkaban. It wasn't the sort of look you forgot.

"Keep an eye on him," I told her distractedly. Potter had noticed we were looking at him, and he was looking back at us rather strangely. I sent him a glare. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Minerva sending him a small smile. Mixed signals, no doubt.

"Why Severus," Minerva teased lightly. "It almost sounds like you care."

Blasted woman. Did she not realize what was at stake? Of course I cared. I could hardly tell her such, of course. Or maybe I could. "Do you not realize what is at stake?" I asked her quietly.

She sent me a rather mean look, no worse than I expected. "That's a fifteen year old boy you're talking about," she protested quietly.

"Oh no," I said, my gaze once more drifting down to the boy in question. He met my gaze steadily, but the challenge set in his facial features failed to reach his eyes. "He's much more than that."

Minerva humphed and went back to her dinner. I could hear her exchange some light conversation with Filius, sitting to her left.

I stared into Potter's eyes, searching for what, I don't know. I sent him another glare, and forced myself to look away. I barely managed to suppress a shudder. Something was very wrong with that boy.

But you wouldn't think to look at him, as long as you avoided his eyes. His countenance was light, and he smiled at his friends, the smug, annoying smile he always wore.

I dragged my eyes away from him (finally), and turned them to the Slytherin table, where they rightly should be. And not a moment too soon, it appeared, because Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were currently in the middle of a fight. To anyone outside of Slytherin, of course, it would look merely like a passionate conversation, held in whispers. But I — who'd known them both for years — could see the lines of tension around their eyes, the way they were shifted slightly away from each other as if they didn't want to be too close. What the devil could they be fighting about now?

They had fought the first week of term as well. A vicious thing, right in the Slytherin common room. Shouting at each other, for the whole world to hear. Quite the spectacle they'd made of themselves. I'd given them weeks of detention, and they'd only just finished serving it. And now they were fighting again… Perhaps a stronger message was needed to make sure it really sunk in. At least they were keeping it quiet, this time. I idly wondered how long that would last.

Dinner ended with something of a whimper. The last stragglers exited the room, leaving only a couple of us still at the staff table.

"Severus," Minerva said, turning to me. She, Filius, and Albus had remained behind. Albus and Filius were discussing some esoteric piece of charms theory, and they looked rather engaged in it.

"Yes?" I responded curtly. I hoped she would not bring up our conversation from earlier. I sincerely doubted she was ready to listen yet.

"Is there something going on between Malfoy and Parkinson?" she asked bluntly, and I felt my eyebrows raise. Perhaps they were more obvious than I'd thought.

"What do you mean?" I said. I certainly wasn't about to give anything away unnecessarily.

"They've been fighting in class," she explained.

My face hardened. "Have they now," I said, placing my fork down carefully on the table. I was already planning how best to show them the full weight of my wrath.

"Oh Severus, not like that," Minerva said, although there was the ghost of a smile on her face. I think she was reassured by the fact that I wasn't just letting my Slytherins run rampant, no matter how it may appear to… some in the castle. "They haven't been disruptive. Cold glances, hushed whispers in the hallway. There's obviously something going on."

"I'm afraid I don't know any more than you do," I reluctantly admitted. "They got into a rather vocal argument the first week of classes. A couple weeks of detention seems to have cured them of that, but it certainly hasn't helped relations between them at all."

Minerva considered this. "Perhaps… A lover's quarrel, then? I can't think of what else would ignite such…" Her lips twitched. "Passion."

My lips twisted with distaste. "I rather prefer not to involve myself in such affairs," I informed her stiffly.

"You don't even know if they were dating?" Minerva said, with far too much glee for the situation.

"Like I said. I prefer not to involve myself in such matters."

"Well, what do you think? Lover's quarrel?" Minerva looked positively delighted at the thought. There was something seriously wrong with that woman.

"I think not. Surely if it were a simple lover's quarrel, it would have resolved itself by now." I had no idea though. I was being honest, I rarely involved myself in such matters, instead leaving it up to the older prefects to handle. They understood these things much better than I did, and were always able to adequately advise the students. I truly had no idea how long these sorts of things would last for. But Malfoy and Parkinson, even as prone to dramatics as they were, were hardly the type. Weren't they? And most importantly, I hadn't noticed anything romantic between the two. Not that I'd been paying attention, but in my experience, teenagers were rarely subtle.

"You don't think so, then?" Minerva asked. "Well, it seems we have reached something of a disagreement." Uh oh. "What do you think of a little wager?"

I glanced over to where Albus was sitting. He wasn't paying us any attention. "What sort of wager?"

"The loser takes the winner's patrolling duties for a week."

I could feel myself practically salivating at the thought. What a wonderful week that would be. And of course, there was no way I could lose. As if Minerva would ever know my own Slytherins better than I did! "What exactly are your terms, then?" I asked, but we both knew I would agree.

"If it turns out to have been a lover's quarrel, I win. If it wasn't, you do."

"Agreed." We shook hands on it. That, of course, left the matter of how we would find out. But as we shared a brief look, I knew we both had our ways, and we absolutely would not be divulging those to each other.

"How have your first couple weeks been?" Minerva asked me idly, as we prepared to leave. Did I have everything? Self: check. Excellent, that was everything. Boy did I love spending literally all of my time in the same god damn building.

"About as well as can be expected," I responded. No cauldrons had been melted yet, surprisingly. Although the first years wouldn't start brewing until later this week, so I suppose that didn't mean very much. "Yourself?" I asked politely.

"They seem to get more nervous every year." Minerva chuckled slightly, and grabbed her cloak from where it had been sitting on the back of her chair.

That actually could be very possible, I realized darkly. The world was a much scarier place than it had been even only a couple years ago. How much had that actually impacted eleven year olds? I would have to have a conversation with my first years, and soon, perhaps. Maybe they could still be spared the full brunt of the war. Or perhaps I should just start handing out calming draughts.

* * *

There was a staff meeting the following morning, bright and early, requested by Umbridge. Her reasoning sounded fine on paper, namely wanting to bring up some issues of student discipline that she was having trouble with as a new professor, but I had no doubt it would be just as useless as everything else she did.

It was with the utmost reluctance that I dragged myself out of bed. It should be a crime to have to deal with Dolores Umbridge at six thirty in the morning. Certainly the things I longed to do to her after only minutes in her company would get me arrested most quickly. I downed a cup of strong, black tea before I left my quarters, and then grabbed another cup as soon as I got to the staff room.

Vector was already there, so I sank into the seat next to her.

"Rough night?" she asked, like she was the funniest person in the world. She probably thought she was.

"Not as rough as this meeting is about to be," I muttered back, and her snort of amusement actually did cheer me up a little. Enough to give Minerva a nod as she took the seat across from me. The rest of the staff filed in, and you could see the annoyance on their faces at having to be up this early to help Umbridge with a problem she wouldn't have if she were a real teacher instead of just another Ministry lackey. Or maybe I was projecting.

Umbridge, the foul toad, was the last to arrive, a full ten minutes later than everyone else. Even Albus was looking impatient.

As a result, he got straight down to business the second Umbridge squeezed her rather ample bottom into one of the rickety wooden chairs. "We are here today, at the request of Dolores-" he gave her a nod, and she smiled sweetly at us as if we weren't all glaring at her. "To discuss the issue of discipline among the students. Have there been any major problems of note?"

I had a laundry list of complaints (as I did every year), but I was honestly too tired to bother. I braced myself for a rant from my most _estmeed_ colleague, but thankfully Filius jumped in first.

"I've had no major problems, Albus, although I've noticed Luna Lovegood is still getting bullied. Most likely by the same girls from last year, as well. I've been keeping an eye out, but I haven't found any hard evidence, so I haven't been able to hand out any punishments yet. Luna, the poor dear, is rather reticent about the whole matter."

Albus nodded sagely. The girl was in her fourth year, and was still having trouble with her housemates. I tolerated no such behavior in my class, of course, so I hadn't realized it was still happening. Deep down, I was actually rather fond of the girl. She was truly brilliant at potions, with a creative flair that even the best students often lacked.

Umbridge scoffed, and you could feel the temperature drop in the room. I imagine most of my coworkers had a similar soft spot for the girl.

"I'm sure whatever bullying she's experiencing, she brought on herself," Umbridge said.

I glanced over at Vector, who looked positively murderous. Ms Lovegood was rather excellent at arithmancy, I had heard. I shifted eagerly in my seat.

"Be that as it may," Albus said, moving the topic along quickly. The bastard. "Have there been any other problems?"

"The fifth-year Gryffindors have quite the attitude," Umbridge said primly. There it was, the moment we'd all been waiting for. And only five minutes into the meeting, too. Maybe we'd actually get out of here in a reasonable amount of time.

"Oh really?" Minerva said coldly. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Harry Potter," Umbridge stated grandly, "is a pompous, arrogant, attention-seeking brat, who needs to be taught a lesson."

"Can't argue with that," I muttered, rather more loudly than I had intended, apparently, because Umbridge was now giving me a large, conspiratorial grin. I had a deep, sinking feeling in my gut. Unfortunately, Vector must have noticed the look of alarm that crossed my face, because she looked much too delighted with the situation.

"Then give him detention, Dolores," Minerva said, exasperated. They'd had this conversation countless times already.

Umbridge glowered. "I have, but the brat absolutely refuses to learn his lesson. He is a constant disruption in class."

Not that there was anything to be disrupted. I'd heard about her teaching methods from my Slytherins, at length. I'd been encouraging self-study, and making myself available to any who wanted tutoring. There were quite a few who'd taken me up on the offer, mostly my NEWT-level students.

Minerva looked conflicted. She made it a rule not to interfere with others' teaching methods. But by all accounts, Umbridge was provoking the boy. Frankly, from what I'd heard from my Slytherins, Potter was actually much more subdued than he'd been previous years. (Minerva thought he was growing up. I knew better.) Of course, she could hardly say as such. Dolores held an uncomfortable amount of power, and making an enemy out of her would only make things more difficult in the long run.

"Yes, well, perhaps you could try assigned seating," Minerva actually suggested. Assigned seating! Like they were children! Dolores loved it, of course. Minerva was absolutely brilliant.

"An excellent idea, Minerva! Separate the trouble-makers…" Dolores was wearing a rather vicious look of glee, especially considering how benign assigned seating was. I wondered what else she had planned. Merlin, she was a fucking nightmare.

The meeting continued on, discussing the various pros and cons of different disciplinary methods, something that every _real_ teacher had heard a thousand times before. My eyes glazed over. I could feel my eyelids drooping. It took all of my willpower not to lay my head down and just go to sleep.

I must have actually fallen into a doze at some point, because I was woken up by a sharp kick to my leg. Umbridge was still droning on about something I didn't care about, and Vector was smirking at me. That witch.

She nodded slightly over at Minerva across from us, and I noticed with glee that her eyelids were drooping as well. I certainly wasn't going to let her forget this any time soon. (All the more because Minerva's state meant that she couldn't have noticed my own.)

Thankfully, perhaps sensing our distress, Albus brought the meeting to a close and we were all free to head down to breakfast. Not that that stopped Umbridge from ranting on to anyone within a meter radius.

There wasn't a single student in the great hall when we arrived, and I felt a pang of jealousy. Those brats. They were probably only just waking up, nestled in their warm beds… I had a feeling I was going to be extra hard on my students today. Who did I have first? Ah yes. The fifth year Slytherin/Gryffindor class. Brilliant.

Minerva looked marginally more awake as we sat down to breakfast, and Vector and I shared another smirk.

Potter entered the great hall obscenely early, only the fourth student to arrive. He looked surprisingly awake, as well. In the five years I'd been keeping a (reluctant) eye on him, I'd never noticed him to be a particularly early riser. Likely it was inconsequential, but it certainly made me wonder. He looked well rested, as well. Uncommon for any teenager.

I felt the sharp urge to use legilimency on him, but I supposed there really wasn't any reason to, other than my own curiosity. I wasn't about to break the law for so unsubstantial a reason, no matter how satisfying it would be. I had some morals, after all. I had to.

His friends arrived much later, and seemed surprised to see him there already. There was a sharp, angry exchange and then the three of them ate their breakfast in stony silence. Curious, indeed.

No one at the staff table was particularly talkative this morning, but Vector and I amused ourselves by slowly pushing all the coffee pots within reach over to Minerva, and seeing how long it would take her to notice. We managed to get four coffee pots circling her plate, before she gave us the stink-eye. And then poured herself a healthy cup.

Vector and I shared another smirk, which only served to make Minerva glare harder, but a sip of coffee calmed her down.

"As deputy headmistress, surely you must have some sway over the scheduling of meetings?" I asked, my tone lacking its usual venom. If anything, I probably sounded a bit desperate.

Minerva snorted. "I wish. I agree, this was poorly timed. But-" she looked around slightly and lowered her voice. Not that Umbridge was paying any attention anyway, still nattering on to anyone who would listen. "Dolores insisted the meeting be held as soon as possible, you see. Apparently she decided she needed more time than would fit in a regular staff meeting."

"How utterly loathsome," I said, wrinkling my nose, and Vector looked thrilled. I suppose she probably agreed with me. To say the least.

"Yes," Minerva agreed with me. "Well, her request was reasonable enough, I suppose. A meeting to discuss student discipline…"

"I think she already knows all about student discipline," I muttered under my breath. There'd been rumors that she was using a blood quill in detentions. Legally quite murky, although no doubt she'd been granted special dispensation for it. None of my Slytherins had been subjected to it. But then, they knew to keep their heads down.

Minerva sighed. Her face pinched, lips pursed. Gryffindors were not known for keeping their heads down. She looked more tired than I'd seen her in years. "At least she doesn't oversee many detentions personally," she tried, but lacked any real conviction.

I stayed silent. There was no comfort to be had in this.

* * *

And then it was class time. Half of the fifth years, the ones wearing green and red, filed into the room. Draco and Parkinson sat at different benches, pointedly not looking at each other. They had been fighting for weeks. Surely there was no way this was caused by a romantic entanglement? There was noo way Minerva could have caught something like this, when I missed it. _Shit,_ I suddenly realized, _I might actually lose this bet_.

Potter sat in the back with Longbottom, studiously avoiding his friends' eyes. With no one talking to each other, perhaps I would finally be blessed with a quiet lesson.

I gave them a small lecture on the potion they would be brewing — a variant on the calming draught that was often used to treat post-traumatic stress disorder. I kept shooting longing glances at the cup of tea sitting on my desk, just begging to be downed. Strong, thick, and stolen from the great hall. The same way I always took (a-ha) my tea. Behind me, the board filled with notes, copied from some papers I had on my desk, and timed to certain voice commands. Annoying to set up, but once it was there, it worked exceedingly well. And it felt magical, to have the notes write themselves on the board.

When I first started teaching, my hands used to shake every time I stood in front of the class. No matter how well I knew the subject, or how young the students were, I would still be a bundle of nerves, every single time. Thankfully, that had faded quickly. It had been a disaster at first, teaching so soon after spying. Everyone was still riding the high from the end of the war, and all I could think about was who had been lost. I treated the students rather harshly, much to the displeasure of my colleagues, but once I had settled into teaching, I merely settled into being overly strict, rather than cruel. The students hated me, of course, but accidents were low and OWL and NEWT grades were generally quite good.

This class, though… I glanced at Potter's messy hair, next to Longbottom's light brown locks and round face that reminded me so much of Frank's. This class got on my fucking nerves like none other. And many of the Slytherins were reporting back to their parents. Four years of them carrying tales of my cruelty to the Boy-Who-Lived back to their parents had gone a long way to ensuring me a place in the Dark Lord's ranks. Certainly that's what I told Albus every time he complained that I was too harsh on the boy.

The students brewed studiously, for once. Perhaps the difficulty of the potion actually managed to take their mind off of house rivalries. Although rivalries had been at something of a low this year. United against a common enemy, and all that. If only the enemy weren't so deplorable, it might have been worth it.

As it was, Potter and Longbottom still managed to epically fuck up their potion. Why did I allow them to partner together? I suppose I could always take a page form Umbridge's book and treat them like five-year-olds, assign them seating and hold their hand the whole time. Certainly if they were going to act like five-year-olds, I should treat them as such.

I peered hesitantly into their cauldron. I could just make out lion fish scales sitting in the bottom of the light blue liquid. The idiots.

"Did you add lion fish scales instead of willow bark?" I snapped at them. I knew they had, of course, but did they? And did they realize what a colossal mistake they'd made?

Of course not. They just stared at me, Longbottom with an expression of abject horror and Potter with an expression of blank confusion. Really, this was just preposterous.

"Do you realize what you've made here?" I asked. It was impressive they'd managed to make anything. They also must have left out the newt juice earlier. How else would they have been able to brew such a strong-

"Poison?" Potter asked me.

"What?" I responded, stunned and slightly unnerved. If my occlumency weren't perfect, I might think the boy had just pulled the answer out of my head.

"It's a poison," Potter repeated, this time more confidently.

Was anyone else seeing this? Could I be imagining things? Or did Harry bloody Potter just actually identify a potion?

"Not just any poison," I said stiffly. It was probably just a lucky guess anyway. Everything Potter brewed was fucking poison. I tapped the lip of the cauldron thoughtfully. It hadn't been on the fire very long at all. Curious. "You've made a poison infused with the properties of a calming draught. One sip of this, and the drinker is literally calmed to death. They know they're dying, of course." I was murmuring softly, keeping my voice low. Potter and Longbottom were still staring at me, but no one else seemed to be paying attention to us. "But they simply don't care. Imagine, feeling your heart slowly stop beating, and you can't even bring yourself to call for help."

Longbottom looked like he was going to throw up. Potter… Potter still had that same blank expression on his face. Suddenly, I felt a shiver go down my spine. Something was wrong here. Potter's eyes were a little too bright, his gaze a little too steady. Once more, I resisted the urge to take a quick look into his mind. I would figure out what was going on with him without resorting to gross invasions of privacy.

Damn my morals.

"Either fix it or start over," I told them, and turned away. There was a passage in the book about accidentally turning calming draughts poisonous. It would give them a method for neutralizing the poison, if they bothered to read the book. It was curious, though, how they were able to make such a perfect batch of the calming death. The potions were very similar, of course, but there were a couple key differences. Quite the coincidence, to hit all those differences spot on.

As I reached my desk and turned around, I saw Potter slip a small vial into his robes, and I felt my heart freeze.

The bastard. Had he done this on purpose? I gripped the desk, leaning on it heavily and trying to look casual when in fact I felt like my legs were going to give out. My eyes drifted to Weasley and Granger, working together quietly. Did they know their friend was going to poison someone?

 _Possibly himself,_ a nasty voice whispered in my head. The wood was warming up under my fingers, and it was starting to feel slippery. My hands were sweating. I wondered if the rest of me was sweating as well? I didn't feel hot. On the contrary, I felt cold. Freezing, actually, even though it was September and the room was full of fire.

 _Don't be absurd,_ I told myself sternly. Perhaps Potter took it as a just-in-case, as a last resort safety measure. Maybe he was going to slip it into Umbridge's tea, not that it would work. All dishes in the wizarding world had poison detection charms on them. They would certainly detect a poison as common as this. But did the boy know that?

I would have to keep a close eye on him, then. But I could hardly follow him around forever. I couldn't even follow him to his next class, I had two more that afternoon.

Blast. I would have to think of something, and quick.

Wait a second…

I ducked into the storeroom for a second, and put up a quick silencing charm.

"Mipsy," I called softly, trying not to tap my foot impatiently. I hated leaving a class alone.

"Yous is calling, sir?" a small house elf asked earnestly. I felt my height rather keenly, looking down at her.

I knelt down to look her in the eye. "Mipsy, I have a task for you."

She nodded eagerly.

"I worry that one of my students is planning something bad," I told her. Her eyes widened appropriately. "Could you keep an eye on him and let me know if he slips a light blue liquid into anyone's food? Or if he takes it himself." I hesitated for a moment. "Or if he does anything else to cause serious harm to someone or- or to himself." The words felt cold on my lips.

She nodded vigorously. The house elves kept an eye on the students when they could anyway, so I doubted this task would be difficult. Not that they usually watched them so closely, but certainly an exception could be made in this case.

"The student is Harry Potter," I told her, after leaving the requisite pause for dramatic effect.

She stilled for a second. Even house eves knew his fucking name. But then she nodded again.

"Yes sir!" she told me. "I's be watching him!" And with a soft pop, she disappeared.

Well. I suppose that took care of that. With a sigh, I went back into the classroom, amazed to find that no one had managed to explode anything in the short time I'd been gone.

Dolores Umbridge cornered me right after my last class.

I was sitting at my desk, feeling utterly exhausted from my longest day of teaching (one double period and two regular classes — pure misery), when she trundled through the door of my classroom. The wretch even had the gall to close the door behind her.

"Severus," she simpered, smiling sickly at me. Dear god. Would this finally be the end of me? A dark lord, countless death eaters, and a manipulative old goat, and in the end it would be Dolores Umbridge, killing me with the most insulting smile I'd ever seen. I was almost impressed.

Oh shit, I had to reply. "Dolores," I responded politely. The name felt like poison on my tongue, but she looked pleased.

_Calm down, Severus. Think of your job. Think of the students. Think of how unpleasant this woman could make things for you. Calm down, and play nice. For fuck's sake, play nice._

"How can I help you?" I asked politely. I once had tea with Bellatrix Lestrange. Surely I could handle a Ministry flunky. Dolores Umbridge couldn't possibly be worse than fucking Bellatrix Lestrange.

She stood in front of my desk, barely taller than me even though I was sitting down. Her ugly, stiff curls piled on top of her squat head, pink bow perched carefully on top. She clasped her hands in front of her and then she _batted her fucking eyelashes at me_.

Oh god, this was worse. This was so much worse. Why didn't I think to install an escape hatch under my chair? What a fool I'd been.

"I noticed in the staff meeting this morning that we share many of the same opinions on student discipline," she said, overplaying the sweet tone.

I thought for a second about what she said. "I suppose we do," I said, my voice betraying none of the growing nausea I felt. _I_ shared the same opinions on student discipline as _Dolores Umbridge_. Minerva and Albus were right, all these years. I was a terrible professor. My stomach flipped unpleasantly. I would have to reevaluate my entire classroom demeanor. I would have to carefully examine every word I said, every point I took. Dear Merlin, she was saying something.

"-and I know we share many of the same opinions on one student in particular."

"Harry Potter," I said calmly. I was a monster.

"Precisely!" she said gleefully. I was responsible for the joy now on her face. I shouldn't be allowed near children.

 _Pull yourself together, Severus!_ I thought desperately. Really now, I was going to be stuck with her all year. I couldn't fall apart after our first real conversation.

"Something needs to be done about that awful boy!" she said. Well, I did agree with her on that, although I imagine not the way she meant it. Potter's eyes flashed through my mind again. "He cannot be allowed to continue spreading these lies!" she almost shouted. Her face was flushed, and her hands were clasped so tightly her fingers were turning white.

But she didn't look mad, she looked-

"Dolores, are you all right?" I asked, trying to sound like I genuinely cared.

Her expression softened. "Oh Severus," she said. I thought longingly of Potter's poison from earlier. I wouldn't even give it to her, I would drink it myself, and fall into the pure, sweet bliss of eternal sleep. "Thank you for asking."

"I've been dealing with Potter's lies for years," I said. "And I've never found them to be anything but the childish ramblings of an arrogant little boy. You mustn't let him get to you like this. I've no doubt it only encourages the brat." I tried to make my words as kind as I could bring myself to. Umbridge reigning in her temper would be excellent for everyone.

"Whatever lies he was telling before, this time it's different." Her squinty little eyes were narrowed, and her nostrils flaring every other word. "The stupid boy doesn't realize how serious this is! He has gone too far, claiming You-Know-Who is back. And Albus Dumbledore-" she said the name with a disgust that I'm sure Albus would be thrilled to hear, and punctuated it by stabbing the air with her stubby little finger. "-has clearly gone senile if he believes the blasted boy! Telling the press he's back? Trying to incite a panic? People may have tolerated Potter's juvenile antics before, but this is too much!" Her voice rang out, echoing against the stone walls of the dungeon. Her chest was heaving, and her eyes were far too wide, far too bright.

It suddenly occurred to me that Dolores Umbridge was more than old enough to have survived the first war. And as she stood in front of me, the only sound in the room the harsh panting of her breath, I wondered who she had lost. Even on a face such as hers, you could see the raw pain. Perhaps this was not a woman motivated by hate, like I'd assumed, but by simple fear. Fear of the terror that had infested the nation. And now, this fifteen-year-old boy was saying the more horrible wizard in recent memory was back. Perhaps… Perhaps Dolores Umbridge wasn't-

"And with an election year coming up, no less!" she screeched, and all of my sympathy instantly vanished. Probably for the best. If I was feeling sympathy for the puffed-up wart, then I would be forced to promptly throw myself off the Astronomy tower.

Oh shit, she was looking at me expectantly again.

"Of course, you're right," I murmured soothingly. _Play the role, Severus. Years and years of fucking playing your role, how is this any different?_

"Something must be done," Umbridge said stiffly. It appeared much of the fire had gone out of her.

"We shall both think on it," I told her. "And then we will discuss it again at a later date. This is the sort of problem that requires deep thought." I tried to add an air of confidentiality to my tone. She was well on track to thinking I was a strong ally in all this. Perhaps once she trusted me, I would be able to temper some of her worst behaviors.

Ugh. Minerva would never let me live this down.

The ghastly being standing in front of my desk attempted to flutter her eyelashes at me again. It rather looked like she had a nervous tic. "Of course, Severus. Thank you so much for your help." On a better woman, I might have considered her sudden attitude demure. This was just sad.

"Indeed."

Thankfully, she left with nothing more than a last long look over her shoulder.

I needed a shower. A long one.

* * *

Mipsy appeared in my office late that evening, as I was just finishing up some grading. The second I saw her, standing there wide-eyed and wringing her ears, the quill fell out of my hand and I lurched to my feet.

"Mipsy! Is it Potter?" Of course it was Potter, what was I thinking.

"Sir, I's is sorry sir, I is not knowing where Harry Potter is!" She looked on the verge of tears.

"What? How do you not know where he is?" My stomach rolled over and I felt sick. It hadn't even been a day, and I'd already failed.

"I's is sorry sir! Mister Potter sir has an invisibility cloak sir, that I is not being able to see through! He is not being in the tower, sir!"

Of course, Harry fucking Potter just had to have the only fucking invisibility cloak in the fucking world that house elves couldn't fucking see through.

Oh god. He was somewhere in the school. He had a poison that would kill painlessly, and possibly a death wish. Or maybe he was going to poison someone else. And I had no idea where he was, and no way of tracking him.

"How quickly will you be able to find him once he takes the cloak off?" He wouldn't die invisible, right? And if he was poisoning someone else, well, then that person should have taken a little more care to not get poisoned by a fucking school boy. Merlin, this whole situation was a complete nightmare.

"Less than a minute, sir, for sure! We is good at finding people, sir! Anywhere in the wards!" Mipsy seemed relieved that I wasn't angry. Or maybe relieved that she hadn't doomed Potter. The house elves all loved the brat.

"Come get me the second you find him!" I told her. She'd be able to find me, just like she'd be able to find Potter once he took the cloak off. Seriously, what was that thing? No wonder James Potter had managed to get into so much trouble.

I grabbed an antidote and headed out of my office, and up a few flights of stairs. I sincerely doubted Potter would be in the dungeon, and I was willing to take that risk. With luck, he would end up nearby, and I'd be able to reach him post haste.

While I could understand why the wards were set up so as not to allow house elves to transport passengers, it was a real pain in situations like this.

Mipsy appeared only a few minutes later. "Astronomy tower!" she said, and I was off running before she'd even finished the first word.

Of course the boy would pick the highest point in the castle. Six flights of stairs later, and I was not only extremely out of breath, but standing at the top of the tower, wind whipping furiously at my cloak. It was surprisingly bright, with a full moon that normally would have chilled me to my bones but now only provided a useful light by which to see Potter.

And boy, was he a sight. He was sitting on the edge of the tower, facing out into the darkness, but he turned to look over his shoulder when he heard me. His eyes were dark, and I suspected his pupils were dilated. That plus his strange pallor indicated he had taken the potion. At least it meant he wouldn't fight me. He was sitting up, although he was swaying slightly, so thankfully I still had some time. Soon he would be unable to support himself at all. And from his position, he would fall backwards when his muscles gave out, not forwards. Backwards off the tower.

"Potter," I said hesitantly. The boy stared blankly at me for a moment, then slowly, his eyes narrowed. He was wearing a white button-up over black pants, the standard school uniform, minus the robe. His untucked shirt was buttoned incorrectly, and his sleeves had been haphazardly rolled up. The wind whipped at his hair, messing it up even further.

"Pofess- pofesso'," he slurred. "What- what're you doin' here?"

"Potter, I've come to help you." I stepped forward slowly. He was probably too far gone already, but the last thing I wanted to do was startle him.

Potter frowned at me. It was a sharper expression than I'd expected to see on his face, considering.

"No thank you," he murmured, and turned away from me again.

What the devil. "Potter!" I said sharply, and he quickly turned his head toward me again. He was much too alert for someone who had taken the calming death. Perhaps he hadn't taken it at all? A moment ago I had been so sure.

"I don't feel calm," he told me. He didn't look calm, either. What the fuck was going on?

"Drink this, and we can talk about it," I said, trying for a soothing tone. I was no good at this, damn it. And certainly not with the son of the man I despised.

"Why would I want to talk to you?" He let out a harsh laugh. How was he so lucid?

Lucid enough to _fucking stand up on the wall of the Astronomy tower_.

"Potter!" I said, panic rising. I liked the calm one better.

"I'm sorry, professor," he said, shaking his head. "But don't you see? This is how it has to be."

"Don't be stupid," I said, much too harshly, for Potter shook his head wildly. The wind was picking up now, enough that I had to shout to be heard. Potter's gaze met mine, and although I couldn't see the color in just the moon light, I could see how bright his eyes were.

My mind flashed unwittingly to my discussion with Umbridge. Potter, seeking attention, making up lies. No regard for his personal safety. Standing on the edge of the Astronomy tower at midnight under a full moon, hair flying everywhere. Of course he would pick the moment of maximum drama.

Potter must have seen something change in my face, because he let out a wild laugh. "Of course it's you!" he shouted at me. "Of course it would be you here, of all people!"

I knew what he meant, but I still found myself taken aback by the anger in his voice. Seriously, what the hell had happened to that poison?

And in my moment of distraction, Potter took a step backwards, and disappeared from view.


	2. Severus Learns to Juggle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been revised as of May 24th, 2017.

* * *

**Chapter 2 — Severus Learns to Juggle**

 

It took me a moment. I’d made a lot of mistakes in my life, but the fact that it took me a moment was worse than anything I’d ever done.

Harry Potter disappeared so suddenly that I thought for a second this whole fucking evening was nothing more than a fever dream. Sanity returned to me another second later, and then it took me another two seconds to draw my wand and cross to the edge. Four seconds total. Four seconds had passed before I was looking over the edge of the tower, wand out. 

We were about fifty meters in the air. Fifty meters with an acceleration due to gravity of 9.8 meters per second squared and an initial velocity of zero meant that it only took a little over three seconds for a falling object to hit the ground. For a fifteen-year-old boy wizard to hit the ground. I hadn’t learned much physics in my life — most wizards spurned the muggle sciences, after all, but I’d learned enough to know I’d already failed before I even looked over the edge of the tower. 

I threw myself off the tower after the boy, casting the feather fall and cushioning charms that I should have cast on him, and landed gently on my feet next to the body of Harry Potter.

Wizards are a lot hardier than muggles. They can often survive great trauma, with the innate magic of a wizard working to protect and heal. This innate magic didn’t work nearly as well during a suicide attempt. The desires of the mind warred with magical instincts, often leading to strange magical outbursts. 

Potter looked strange lying there, eyes closed. Blood pooling out from under his head, glinting black in the moonlight. Too much blood. He’d landed awkwardly and his neck was clearly broken. My heart was racing, beating so loudly I swore I could hear it. I automatically cast as many magical detection charms as I could think of, even though I already knew what they would say, but before I even had the results the boy was opening his eyes. I gazed at him, dumbfounded.

I could have wept. I almost did, in that moment, that first moment when we made eye contact. He grimaced when he saw me, his face pale and bloody. The detection charms told me exactly what I had thought. He’d sustained multiple serious breaks, and his _neck-_

I didn’t have the same training as Poppy, but years as a Death Eater had taught me how to heal pretty much any non-magical damage. It was much simpler to heal injuries not caused by magic, anyway. I performed the spells automatically, in a daze. How had he survived?

It did nothing to alleviate my guilt, but seeing the boy sitting there, alive and whole, certainly eased some of the tension in my stomach. _How had he survived?_ The thoughts echoed through my head again. 

The boy pushed himself up to a sitting position, scowling at me. He held my gaze, expression challenging, before sighing and looking down at the ground. He crawled over to lean against the wall of the castle, and brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. His chin rested on his right knee, and he just stared at me. 

I towered over the boy, standing up like this, so I crouched down to look at him. My fingers, already covered in blood from the healing, trailed in the wet grass. 

We stared at each other in silence for a while. My knees were starting to ache. How had he survived?

I was the one who finally broke the silence. “Potter…” I said quietly, almost a whisper. As soon as I started talking I realized that I had no idea what to say.

“Professor, I don’t want to talk about it.” His voice was weary, and he sounded completely exhausted. I wasn’t surprised. He’d had a hell of a day.

“I imagine so,” I said, taking care to keep my tone even. No accusation, no criticism. That was the last thing he needed right now, even I could see that. And truthfully, I was too frightened to have another confrontation with the boy. “However, I would like to know… I would like to know why you tried to kill yourself. This was obviously something you’d been planning. I know you made that poison in class today on purpose.”

“I didn’t plan on you being here,” Potter muttered to himself. I pulled my cloak tight. Still September, and yet I was absolutely freezing. 

“I have no doubt you did not.” I told him. “If you don’t want to talk to me, that is fine. I will take you to the hospital wing, and you can talk with Madam Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore.”

The boy shook his head. “I don’t want to talk to them.” He sounded petulant, like the child he was. Fifteen… God, too young to die. 

“You have to talk to someone.”

“Why?” He sent me another challenging look. Dear Merlin. 

“I know you’re going to try again. I can’t just let you go.” After all this time, to have it end like that… No, I couldn’t just let the boy go. I’d promised to keep him safe. I’d sworn on Lily’s memory. And now I’d almost failed. I could tell, underneath the shock, that I was furious at him. That he’d been so foolish as to attempt to kill himself when she had died for him to live.

“You will if I tell you why,” he told me, staring straight into my eyes. I almost fell over, but I caught myself just in time. I gripped the grass tightly, and felt the strands rip from the ground. 

“Tell me,” I whispered hoarsely, and Potter gave me a long, considering look. I wondered what I looked like right now. Dreadful, probably. I was keeping my face as blank as possible, but I had no doubt some of horror I was feeling was showing on my face. Perhaps my eyes were too wide, or my lips too pale. A thousand visual cues, just waiting for someone to notice.

“Did you know there’s a prophecy about me? About me and Voldemort?”

I winced when he said the name, a flash of pain going down my arm, but I didn’t say anything. I deserved a little pain at the moment. “I know of it,” I told him. Of course I knew of it. And I knew what the first few lines said as well. I was the one who had told them to the Dark Lord, who had betrayed his once only friend and painted a target on her and her son. And this is how I atoned for it, by standing at the top of that tower in shock and letting her son jump to his death. By doing nothing even when I could read the truth in his eyes. 

The fact that he wasn’t dead meant little, since by all rights he should be. But I would worry about that later. Extensively, no doubt. The boy was still staring at me. I couldn’t see the colour in the dim light, but I could see how wide his eyes were, the pupils blown up. It gave him a crazed look. I’m sure I looked about the same, crouched down in front of him.

“The prophecy says, ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies, and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not, and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives, the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies.’” The boy’s slightly mocking tone fell silent, and I contemplated his words.

I’d never heard the prophecy in full before. It was chilling, truly chilling, how much the world depended on this boy in front of me. “And you thought to kill yourself?” I said harshly, my anger finally rising to the top. “The prophecy states that you’re the only one who can kill him! You stupid boy, you almost doomed us all!”

“No, don’t you see?” he said urgently, ignoring my harsh words. No doubt he was used to them, by now. His voice was earnest and eager, and there was an intensity in his eyes that was almost impossible to fake. “‘Either must die at the hand of the other.’ The prophecy is crap. It says I have to be the one to kill him, that I have some sort of special power that he doesn’t know about. But that’s not true! I don’t have any sort of power at all. Dumbledore said something about my mother’s love protecting me, but Voldemort knows about that! He told me so at the graveyard, he used my blood and then he touched me- the protection is broken!

“But I’ve done some research. Prophecies can be broken. It’s estimated that only one in three prophecies come true. Don’t you see? Either must die at the hand of the other! If I die by my own hand, then the prophecy is worthless. Anyone could kill him!” The boy spoke softly, but urgently, his voice growing as he reached his point. His eyes were too wide, too bright. 

I stared at him, my mind racing. Unbelievably, I could actually see the logic behind his reasoning. “You wouldn’t have to do it,” I said softly. The problem, of course, was that the Dark Lord had been unstoppable the first time around, before he had been felled by the Potters. Was there any reason to believe that this time would be different?

“But if the Dark Lord kills me, then we play right into the prophecy’s hands, and what if that means no one else can kill him?” 

“You don’t think you can kill him,” I stated. _Oh, god, Lily, I’m so sorry._ His words made a sick sort of sense. I could see where he was headed, now. 

“Do you?” His words were challenging, but his tone was soft, almost wistful. 

“No,” I told him honestly. “I don’t think you can.” The words chilled me to the bone as I realised the truth of them. If the boy confronted the Dark Lord, the boy would die, and the Dark Lord might not ever be defeated. Or could the prophecy be right, and Potter was the only one who could defeat him? Then if Potter died we would be without hope regardless. 

“Don’t you see? This is the only way. I have to try.” He looked at me with hopeful eyes. Hopeful! Where was the hope here? “If I die, then Dumbledore can kill him. Dumbledore has a much better chance than I do!” Dumbledore had failed to kill him during the first war. Why would it be any different now that he was fourteen years older? I needed more time to think on the matter.

This was much worse than depression. I’d been prepared for a depressed Potter, a Potter who was traumatised, who thought he had nothing to live for. This was worse. This was a Potter with something to die for.

I sighed deeply, and turned to sit against the wall next to the boy. I stretched my legs out, and stared at the shiny tips of my boots. My knees were killing me. My hands rested in my lap, stained dark with blood. 

Looking over to my left, I met the boy’s eyes again. “What if you’re the only chance there is? What if he becomes invincible upon your death?”

“If I die by my own hand then it means the prophecy is bogus,” Potter retorted, a stubborn lilt to his mouth.

“Potter, you didn’t die,” I said softly.

He scowled. “I know.”

“You took poison that should have killed you. You jumped off the tower and broke your neck.”

“I _know_ ,” he repeated.

“Perhaps there is a reason.” The thought was a crazy one, but it had to be said. How could the boy be immortal? It wasn’t because of the prophecy; that wasn’t how they worked. Prophecies described events, the only way they shaped them was through influencing the actions of those who heard it. They held no actual power.

“Then maybe I’ve found the power he knows not after all. But I have to try, don’t you understand? Can’t you see? I have to try. I’m dead anyway.”

I could feel my conscience, as rusty as disused as it was, straining. “Potter, there is no way to know what exactly the prophecy means. If you truly are some kind of- of _chosen one_ , then to kill yourself would leave the rest of the world doomed.”

“I can’t kill him! And however I kill myself will be a lot nicer than anything Voldemort would do.” Another twinge of pain in my mark. His words were bitter, and, for a moment, seemed to me to be the height of selfishness. And then the feeling passed, and I was left feeling confused and empty.

“That poison should have killed you,” I said slowly, my mind racing. If he truly could not die except at the Dark Lord’s hand, we would need to find out why. Immunity to death suggested a powerful magic. Could something there be the key to the Dark Lord’s defeat?

“It didn’t, though,” the boy replied quietly. I was staring off into the darkness, but out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was staring at me intently. After a few silent moments passed, the boy quietly added “I’m going to keep trying.” He said it with hesitance, as if testing the waters.

“If you are truly impervious to death, then we must know why,” I informed him. “However… any study we do must be done with the utmost care. The prophecy states you cannot die, but it says nothing about other permanent damage. The last thing we need is you crippling yourself.”

The boy winced. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted, and I nodded. Of course he hadn’t.

“We also…” This was a dark path I was going down. What was I even agreeing to? This was madness. “We also must not tell anyone. Your friends, Albus, Minerva — none of them would agree with our methods.” Albus would never condone such research. It reeked of dark magic. 

“I know,” the boy said. Of course he did. 

“We will also have to spend a lot of time together.” The words were bitter in my mouth. _I’m sorry, Lily_. It had to be done. If I left him unattended, he would just keep trying, and most likely cause himself serious harm. 

“I figured.” He didn’t look especially disgruntled at the notion. Perhaps he believed his survival so far was pure luck, and that he would die soon enough regardless. Merlin. I felt sick to my stomach. 

“And this may require some use of dark magic,” I warned him. 

He nodded again evenly, although I noticed a tension in his brow. “Okay. I can do this. Just…” Finally, he looked uncertain. 

“What?” I snapped, when he failed to speak.

“When we’re alone, can you not… I mean, I’ll try too, but… I mean, tonight you’ve been…” He shrugged helplessly.

I gaped at him wordlessly. Was he asking what I thought he was asking? “I make no promises,” I responded shortly, and he winced. I looked down at my hands, covered in his blood, and felt a wash of shame come over me. “Perhaps I will try,” I grudgingly added. I thought I saw a ghost of a smile flash across his face, but in an instant, it was gone.

I supposed the boy deserved a little more credit than I had been giving him. The boy was willing to give his life for our cause. I could… relate. “As long as you realise, no one else must suspect what we are doing. Nothing changes in public.”

“Like Professor Umbridge?” he asked.

“Most definitely. She is watching you extremely closely. Any unusual behaviour will be noticed instantly. Additionally, it must never get back to the Dark Lord that anything has changed. My life would be forfeit were he to question my motives.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” the boy acquiesced. 

“We are agreed, then?” I asked him, hoping he would back out. I knew he wouldn’t, but… The hope was still there. My mind flashed back unwittingly to the sight of him, lying on the ground, neck bent at an odd angle and blood everywhere. Even staring at him, healthy and whole, it was hard to forget the sight. His blood was still on my hands.

Potter nodded, determination shining in his eyes. The first true emotion I’d seen in them all term. Maybe… Maybe this would do him good after all, as sick as it was.

“Yes,” he said strongly, and for a brief, insane moment I thought he had read my mind. 

“Go back to your dorm and sleep,” I instructed him. “Take tomorrow, focus on your school work, get some rest, heal up. Even if you truly cannot die, we must take care to keep you in good shape.” 

He nodded, less strong but still determined. “I can do that,” he told me.

“Good. We will start the day after tomorrow. Report to my office at seven o’clock. I’ll assign you a detention Thursday in class so that our meeting may avoid suspicion.” I eyed the boy carefully for any signs of annoyance.

“I think people would be more suspicious if you didn’t give me detention,” the boy noted dryly, and I saw his lips quirk upwards for a moment.

“Indeed,” I replied, taken aback at his sudden humour. He’d tried to kill himself not even an hour ago. And yet now he was looking at me with something akin to _hope_. 

I stood up abruptly, deciding not to let my thoughts dwell on Potter any longer. Or, at least try not to let them. “ _Tergeo_ ,” I muttered, cleaning the blood off my hands and robes. I then offered Potter a hand to get up, and he looked at me like I had donned a pink tutu and started dancing ballet. 

“What,” I huffed (in a very serious and intimidating manner), but Potter grabbed my hand anyway and I felt his weight pull on my arm as I hauled him to his feet. He was still looking at me like I was a madman, but it didn’t seem to be an especially accusing look. He just looked confused. “What?” I asked again, raising my eyebrow. I hoped he could adequately see my disgruntled expression in the dim lighting.

“Nothing,” Potter said, and he had the utter gall to sound mildly amused. What a cretin.

I cast a quick spell to remove any trace of our presence (it mostly just cleaned up Potter’s blood — a variant on the vanishing charm that only removed things recently introduced to an area), and we headed back to the castle in silence. 

“My invisibility cloak is up on the tower,” Potter said thoughtfully, after a moment.

“Hmm. Mipsy,” I called, and we came to a halt just outside the doors. There was a soft pop.

She blinked in surprise to see us standing there, but broke into a wide grin. “Yes, sirs?” she asked excitedly.

“Would you please retrieve Potter’s cloak from the Astronomy tower for him?” I asked her.

Potter gave me another strange look as she disappeared, and opened his mouth to say something. Thankfully, Mipsy reappeared almost instantly. 

“Heres you gos, Mister Harry Potter sir,” she said brightly, handing him the cloak.

“Thank you Mipsy, that will be all.” I would speak with her later about Potter, but that was hardly a conversation I wanted him around for. I gave her a slight nod. She was not to blame for my failure, no matter how tempting it was.

“Yes sir!” she said cheerfully, and popped away. Of course she was thrilled that Potter seemed to be fine. She had no idea how close he’d come.

“She seems to like you,” Potter said quietly. I forgot, Potter liked house elves almost as much as they liked him. Or he probably did, if that blasted house elf he was friends with was any indication.

“House elves ask little from us,” I informed him dryly. I bet he even got along with Black’s miserable excuse for an elf. I wondered if Potter could still do anything to surprise me, after everything I’d seen of him tonight.

So of course the bloody fool managed it immediately. His short laugh startled me, but perhaps not as much as his next words did. “Actually, sir, I think they ask more from us than we could ever give.” 

I almost wrote it off as childish nonsense, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he was speaking from experience. I almost asked him to explain himself, but before I could, he quirked his lips at me again in something of a parody of a smile. 

“See you in class, professor,” he said, and disappeared with a swish of that blasted invisibility cloak. 

I stared at the spot where he had disappeared for a moment, until finally I heard footsteps leading away, and watched the doors to the castle slide open slightly. I slipped in behind him, and made my way slowly to the dungeons.

This night had not gone as expected, that was for sure.

 

* * *

 

The next morning was rather miserable too. I was exhausted. I’d hardly gotten any sleep, tormented by dreams of Potter’s dead eyes looking up at me from a broken body. Of the look in his eyes as he’d stepped off the Astronomy tower. 

Minerva, of course, noticed my distraction. It was rather hard to miss, what with my elbow in the porridge.

“What on earth has gotten into you, Severus?” she asked me, handing over a stack of napkins and another bowl.

“I had a rather late night,” I informed her quietly. 

Her eyes widened. “Not-“ she cut herself off abruptly.

I hesitated. It would be a rather neat lie… There was so much in my life I blamed on the Dark Lord, what was one more thing. “Not exactly,” I murmured to her. “I merely got caught up in research.”

She nodded in understanding. Of course she understood, she was worse than I was when it came to that sort of thing.

“I think you may have been right about Potter,” she said after a moment of silence. She was gazing off at the Gryffindor table thoughtfully. I followed her gaze over to where Potter was sitting and chatting quietly with his friends. He seemed to have taken my suggestion to heart, because he was currently engaging in a reasonable breakfast for once. “I didn’t realise how differently he’d been acting until he started acting normally again.” She stared at the boy for a moment longer before turning back to me. “What do you suppose could have brought on his change in attitude?”

Thankfully, I was too tired to react even if I hadn’t had my emotions in the tight grip of occlumency. “We may never understand what goes on in that boy’s head, Minerva.” Although I desperately wanted to. Just a quick peak… But no. Lily would no doubt find a way to come back from the grave in order to kill me. “No doubt whatever petty drama he’s been involved in has been resolved.” Petty drama like trying to kill himself in order to save the world. Nothing more than a trifle, really.

Minerva looked doubtful. Of course she did. As if any of her darling Gryffindors could ever be that upset over something _petty_. “We should keep a closer eye on him,” she commanded. 

I raised an eyebrow. I’m sure the effect was ruined by my accidentally spilling tea on my robes. Really, I could already tell this day was going to be a disaster. Good thing I still had all the napkins and my wand out from the earlier incident, eh? Or maybe not. 

“ _Now_ you want to keep an eye on him?” I asked skeptically. I would probably be assigning a lot of ‘detentions’ to the boy over the coming weeks. The last thing I wanted was Minerva on my case about it. No doubt she would find out if she started keeping closer tabs on Potter. Although… 

“Really, Severus. You more than anyone know that simply because he’s eating breakfast does not mean he’s truly overcome whatever challenges had him so depressed before.” 

I pretended to think deeply on her words. Really, I was debating whether or not to make a third attempt at having some breakfast. 

“I believe… I believe you are correct,” I told her, over exaggerating the hesitance in my words. “I think I will keep a closer eye on the boy as well.” I tapped my fingers gently on the table. _Take the bait, Minerva…_

And so she did. “Just try not to be too hard on the boy,” she humphed. “Goodness knows he hardly needs a _closer eye_ from you.”

“He will survive it,” I told her evenly. God I hoped so. 

She rolled her eyes at me. What gall. “At least that’s something.”

“Don’t worry,” I said suddenly, surprising even myself. “I’ll do what I can.” I looked over at Potter again, more to avoid Minerva’s expression than anything. No doubt she would be — the horror — _touched_. She would take this as some sign I cared. And hopefully not look too deeply into all the detentions. Maybe she would assume I was assigning them in order to talk to him, rather than attempt to kill him in an attempt to identify the magic responsible for the fact that he was still breathing. Could dying at the hand of a Death Eater count as dying at the hand of the Dark Lord? I needed to think on it more, and tread very carefully. 

Potter did look much better, though. Some of the fire was back in his eyes. No doubt from the knowledge that he’d soon be doing something directly related to the fight against the Dark Lord. His dedication surprised me, but it shouldn’t have. His parents, no matter their faults, had been beyond dedicated to the cause. Was dedication genetic? I doubted Petunia would have raised someone so prone to self sacrifice. I had gone to check on Petunia before Potter had been dropped off there, and she had already started spoiling her son rotten. No doubt she had done the same to Lily’s son. She had adored Lily when they were kids, even if they had fallen out when Lily started Hogwarts. The boy’s placement suggested that Petunia had eventually come around.

That was the last time I saw Petunia. That glimpse through the window, stolen at the request of an old fool. Still. An old fool who’d done everything he could to keep me out of prison. Those had been rather dark times. The Dark Lord gone, yes, but the suspicion… Oh, the suspicion had remained. 

I had been so grateful for the fall of the Dark Lord, but the loss of Lily had cut deep. Even if we hadn’t spoken in years. That had probably been for the best, honestly. If we had remained friends, she would have invited me to her wedding. I would have had to watch her wed James Potter, watch her be married to James Potter. That would certainly have been pure misery. 

Minerva elbowed me gently. “Are you all right?” she asked, genuine concern in her voice. It astounded me still, after all these years, how she was able to forgive all my sins. Never forget, true, but forgive nonetheless. 

“I was thinking,” I told her, and I could hear the distance in my voice, caused by thoughts over a decade away. 

She gave me a short nod. She understood, of course. I hadn’t been the only one to lose someone in the war. Not by a long shot. And what had I lost, really, compared to others? A friend I hadn’t spoken to in years, when so many of my colleagues had lost spouses, children, or even themselves? I was not a fool to think that Lily’s death cut me more than the loss of others’ loved ones. 

I didn’t think I was even the one who missed Lily the most. Likely that honour went to Petunia, or perhaps Potter. 

Potter, who heard Lily’s screams every time dementors were near… I rather desperately wished Lupin hadn’t told me that. What a fucker.

“We all think occasionally,” Minerva said. “Have some more tea, Severus. You look like death warmed over.” She pushed a cup over my way.

“Thanks,” I responded dryly, but I took a sip anyway. I was beyond exhausted. Usually, I was quite careful to get enough sleep, mindful of what lack of sleep could do to someone who had secrets to hide. For starters, my thoughts tended to wander something awful. 

Last night had been an exception. I would just have to be extra careful with my tongue today, and take care to build up my occlumency shields. The Dark Lord almost never called me on weeknights, but he’d been acting crazier than usual lately, and you never knew.

I managed to make it through the rest of breakfast without any more mishaps, and soon I found myself teaching again. Thankfully, I wasn’t teaching all day. I only had one class Wednesday afternoon, and so I decided to spend the extra time lingering in the Slytherin common room. I tried to on occasion, to make myself more easily available to the students. 

It was only slightly better than teaching, in that I could sit down the whole time and have Mipsy bring me endless cups of tea. Mostly it was listening to student complaints, and occasionally overhearing some juicy tidbit that I hadn’t heard from the prefects yet.

Today was certainly no exception.

I was on my fourth cup of tea, sitting in my usual chair by the fire, when Draco and Parkinson started getting into a rather heated whispered argument.

I didn’t move, of course, but my attention was definitely directed their way. Perhaps I could finally settle my bet with Minerva.

“What do you mean, you can’t find it?” Parkinson hissed. Hmm. That hadn’t been what I was expecting.

“Theo and I looked all over the castle, Pans. It wasn’t anywhere!” Draco whispered furiously back.

“He said it would be! Are you calling him a liar?” Parkinson replied. I briefly considered the idea that the ‘him’ could be the Dark Lord, but I sincerely doubted the two of them would be stupid enough to argue about it in the common room when they knew very well that I was there. Which led me to suspect that actually, they most likely wanted me to hear this. Fascinating. And I was starting to feel pretty strongly that this was not, in fact, a lovers’ quarrel. Superb.

“Well… We don’t really know, do we?” Draco told her. That definitely ruled out the Dark Lord. Even Draco wasn’t fool enough to question His orders.

“Draco, you’ve only been looking for a week!” protested Parkinson. I longed to look at them, but that would be too obvious, even for this farce of a situation. Perhaps… Angling myself just slightly, I could almost see their reflections in the polished brass of the plaques above the fireplace. Not enough to get any real information, other than that the two of them were rather tense. I could have surmised that from their voices.

“Why are we even looking for this, Pans?” Draco whined, and I wondered how much of this was acting. Draco’s voice certainly sounded genuine. Still, they may have only been fifteen, but they were Slytherins nonetheless. I simply could not believe that they would be so careless with a plot. But then… Did they want me to think they wanted me to know? How deep did the layers go? I would have to keep a much closer eye on them in the future.

“You know why!” Parkinson hissed back, much lower this time. The only reason I heard was because I had rather good hearing. And also I had enhanced it for exactly this purpose. My thoughts raced. Would Draco know how good my hearing was? Did they intend for me to hear this?

“All I know is what you’ve told me, and that’s basically nothing!” Draco’s voice matched Parkinson’s low volume. 

I took a leisurely sip of tea. 

“Draco, I promise, I will explain everything later. But we need to find this room!” Her last sentence was still whispered, but definitely a louder whisper. Of course, this didn’t exactly sound like an argument they’d had multiple times. What had they been arguing about earlier then?

“How are we supposed to find it? All we’ve got is this stupid legend. The ‘Belfry of Balarin Bane,’ what kind of stupid name is that anyway?” Draco’s tone was mocking, but his words sparked a hint of recognition in my mind.

Balarin Bane was a former Headmaster of Hogwarts, famed for his extreme paranoia and extensive spy network. A belfry… Hogwarts didn’t currently have any belfries. I would know. So if Balarin Bane did have a belfry, a hidden one, or one lost to time, perhaps, then that could very well be the centre of where he’d run his spy network.

Which, of course, would explain why Draco and Parkinson would be interested. Why any Slytherins would be interested, in fact. But why would they want me to be interested in it as well? Were they hoping I would find it for them? They should know I would never share such a discovery with students. And who had told them about it in the first place?

I would have to investigate further. Whatever their plot was, I would learn more by going along with it, for now. And, of course, by keeping a very close eye on them. In fact, perhaps I would recruit a few of the more trusted prefects to help me with this. And perhaps… two students outside of Draco and Parkinson’s sphere… Blaise Zabini and Tracy Davis. Indeed, they could most likely be convinced to help feed me some information. 

One thing for sure, however: I was definitely winning this bet. 

 

* * *

 

 

That evening, I returned to my office to a most horrible scene. 

There, on the desk. Casually laying on top of my grading. A letter. 

In a pink envelope.

Sealed with a fucking lipstick kiss.

“I’m going to vomit,” I announced to the empty room, and immediately a bucket appeared. “Thanks Mipsy,” I said dryly. That was my fault, really. I knew elves didn’t understand sarcasm. 

I picked up the bucket anyway, and moved hesitantly closer to the desk — very hesitantly. I cast all manner of detection charms on the paper, and nothing. Despite the gaudy frills, it was simply addressed. My name on it, in over-exaggerated cursive, and that stupid lipstick print.

“Fine,” I muttered, and set the bucket down on my chair. I snatched the envelope off the desk, and tore it open savagely. Fine, I would read what that fucking wretch had to say. No doubt it would be utter rubbish, just like everything else she produced.

_My dearest Severus,_ the letter started, much to my extreme distaste. _I have written this letter in order to request your presence in my rooms, tonight at eight. I was rather hoping you and I could… discuss student discipline in more depth. Eagerly waiting your reply, Dolores Umbridge._

The whole thing was written in that same obnoxious cursive. And who wrote out ellipses like that? It was the saddest attempt at subtlety I had ever seen, and I had been a professor at a school full of teenagers for thirteen years. 

Really, what was the woman playing at? Surely I hadn’t expressed so much interest that she’d already be inviting me to her rooms? 

No, this had to be stopped. Except I damn well couldn’t stop it, could I, because who knew how she would react once jilted. My fist — the one not holding the letter — clenched and unclenched. I needed a better plan. I needed some way to cause her to lose interest, while still wanting me as a close confidante whom she would trust and tell all her secrets to.

Blast. This was going to be impossible. I would have to play her game, wouldn’t I. I would have to play her game, and do everything in my power to delay any unpleasantries. 

Could I even go through with something like that if I had to? If it meant being able to temper her, knowing her plans in advance? I’d spent years spying on the Dark Lord, and I’d had to do all manner of horrible things. None as horrible as this, true, but was this really such a stretch?

Standing there in my office, bucket on my chair and letter in my hand, alone, blessedly alone, I felt like perhaps this was indeed something I could do. True, Dolores Umbridge was about as far from my type as one could physically be. Did I even have a type? The only woman I had ever been in love with was Lily, and even then it had never been sexual. I’d had few sexual encounters in my youth, all of them unsatisfying and leaving me feeling vaguely ill. I supposed Regulus hadn’t been all bad, but Bellatrix had most certainly been a mistake. She had thought so too, and had hated me with a passion ever since. 

Maybe the problem was that everyone I’d ever been intimate with had been a Death Eater. And also, I started to realize with sickening dread, a member of the Black family. I hastily shoved that train of thought away. 

Perhaps I could… Perhaps there were potions I could take that would make her appear different. Or perhaps there were potions that would make me different, that would inspire me to lust after her. The thought physically sickened me. I’d made greater sacrifices. Right?

Maybe I could do it. Maybe I could have sex with Dolores Umbridge. I kicked angrily at my chair, and the bucket wobbled precariously before settling down again. 

But only as a last resort, of course. I should probably send a note back saying I wouldn’t be able to make it. Tonight, or tomorrow. Fuck, how long would I be able to put this off for?

I forced myself to take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I was being ridiculous. Why was I even considering this? I was getting far too ahead of myself. No doubt Dolores considered herself a modest woman, and would want to take things slow. Which meant it was very possible she would be murdered before it ever came to that! That would be most excellent indeed. If I could fool the Dark Lord, certainly I could convince that fungus of a human being to _take things slow_. Oh god, maybe I would need the bucket after all.

I dashed off a quick note to the toad saying that I hadn’t slept well and needed this evening to catch up on sleep, and sent it off with Mipsy. I felt bad subjecting Mipsy to her… charms… but I didn’t particularly trust any of the other elves.

The moment Mipsy disappeared, I felt something change in the room. I looked up from my desk, peering closely at the walls, looking for any discolouration or blurriness. No doubt there was some disillusioned student in here.

I cast a quick spell to conjure mist in the room (really a modification on _aguamenti_ ), barely even twitching my fingers. This was an excellent spell for this. Very subtle, and it was one of the few I could cast wandlessly with complete control. I glanced around the room. No holes in the mist. Very curious… 

“Homenum Revelio,” I intoned, and nothing happened. No others in here at all then. But what was I sensing? (After all this time, of course I knew better than to ignore one of my gut feelings. Especially one as strong as this.)

Perhaps there was some hidden object. I went around the room, testing for signs of magic. Of course, there were the normal Hogwarts wards that existed everywhere within the castle and its grounds, but different magic, new magic especially, should stand out like a sore thumb. 

Instead, I found nothing. Until I returned to my desk. And realised, that in the ten minutes searching the room, carefully inspecting the walls, inspecting the floor, inspecting the bookshelves and my jars and the muggle paintings hung on the wall… I had not once looked at the ceiling.

I looked up. And the moment I looked up, a stream of fire shot down from the ceiling directly towards me.

I cast _aguamenti_ again without thinking, putting the fire out before it reached me. There was no one here. How could that have happened?

I sat in stunned silence for a moment, before my brain started racing through what combination of spells could possible have caused this. I cast numerous detection spells, to check for lingering magic, to try and figure out what magic had even been used. I sensed nothing. 

And why? Why would someone do this? As a prank, it was worthless. I wasn’t embarrassed at all. No one had even seen it. There was no reason someone else would have seen it, either. Students never came to my office except for detentions, and any fool could look at the detention listings and find out if I was overseeing one tonight. It was novel, I would give them that, but novel only because pranksters previously had been smart enough to know it was an utterly stupid idea.

Unless. Unless it wasn’t a useless prank at all. It was a useless murder attempt. 

…or perhaps a warning of some sort. Yes, that was more likely.

But a warning against what? What had I done that someone would want to warn me away from? Potter’s prophecy, a Slytherin plot, Dolores’ nonsense, and now this? 

It was certainly shaping up to be an interesting year. 

 

 

 


	3. Harry Learns to Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I realize it's been kind of a long time since I last updated. I was looking at my notes for it recently and realized that I actually really like where I was going with this, so I decided to resurrect it. I've rewritten the first two chapters, so even if you haven't forgotten everything that happened, I would recommend rereading them. I've mostly cleaned up the writing and made everything more logically consistent.
> 
> I'm currently involved in the QLFC, so I'm going to at least be writing fan fiction more regularly, and I intend to use that momentum to actually get this written. So expect the next chapter in the next couple weeks (hopefully sooner).

Breakfast. The most important meal of the day. I gazed across the Great Hall thoughtfully as I took in the smattering of early-risers. It was only a little after seven, and most students were still getting ready for the day.

Currently, Filius, Vector and I were the only ones at the staff table. I had no idea what happened to Minerva, but I imagined she'd be along soon enough. Not that I was waiting for her or anything. God forbid.

There were a couple seventh-year Slytherins, chatting quietly over toast and tea. A Hufflepuff, dourly eating her porridge. A few Ravenclaws were absently eating their breakfasts, their noses stuffed into books. There were no Gryffindors down this early. Probably for the best.

"No porridge today, Severus?" Vector said slyly from my right, eyeing the eggs and toast on my plate.

"I simply didn't feel like it," I said, sniffing haughtily. Filius, to my left, let out a small snort.

I elected to ignore him.

"How are classes going?" Vector asked conversationally. Egads, had I accidentally inspired conversation with my glib response? Well, I'd certainly learned my lesson.

I answered nonetheless. "As well as can be expected." My tone was dry, but not altogether cold. Vector was actually one of the less annoying members of the staff. Filius as well.

"So terribly?" she returned lightly. I very carefully made sure no hint of a smile appeared on my face.

"Come now, surely it can't be that bad," Filius cut in. "I've noticed my students are rather less… rowdy this year."

I nodded in acknowledgement. "I have noticed less of a discipline problem."

"Really?" Vector asked, fascinated. Likely she rarely had to deal with poor classroom behaviour. Generally, the only students who took Arithmancy were the ones who were devoted to their studies.

"Indeed. I've got some theories as to why," I said dryly.

Filius nodded slowly. "United against a common enemy," he said, and the three of us shared a moment of silence in acknowledgement of the depths of truths to those words.

"I give her until Easter," I declared. Quietly, of course. Not that the students were listening anyway. Filius looked surprised for a moment, before a wry grin crossed his face, and Vector had looked amused from the start. I took a bite of egg. Passable, but I liked my yolks runnier.

"I'd be surprised if she makes it to Christmas," Vector said.

"Come now, Septima," Filius tutted. "As if we could ever be that lucky."

My hastily aborted snort had me almost choking on my egg, and Filius thumped my back quickly.

"Dear me, are you all right?" he asked, but there was a spark of humour glinting in his eye and he couldn't quite hide the smile that graced his lips.

"Yes, yes," I muttered. I took a few careful sips of water, and felt the cool liquid slip down my aching throat. "I'm not dead yet," I added petulantly.

"Good. I can only imagine the replacement Potions instructor the Ministry would scrounge up." Vector narrowed her eyes in thought. "Do you think they would let the students actually brew, or just look at the ingredients and imagine really hard?"

Truly, the thought was horrifying. I took another (careful!) bite of egg, and watched my colleagues in amusement.

"Ah, but then who would be the ultimate authority in the castle?" Filius asked wryly.

"Do you think we could get the Ministry lackeys to fight over who had more authority?" said Vector, tapping her chin. Her nails were a dark, shiny blue, and she wore a smirk on her reddish-brown lips.

"They could compete over who could assign the most useless homeworks," Filius suggested with glee.

I leaned back and ate a piece of toast as they traded outlandish suggestions back and forth in front of me. It was astonishing, how quickly my colleagues had grown to accept me after the war. How completely. We didn't always see eye to eye, but they respected me, and they listened to my opinions.

It was more than I'd had for a long time.

Eventually, their banter slowed to a halt, and we ate in silence for a while until the entrance of one particular student caught my eye, and that of my colleagues as well.

Harry Potter. The boy who… lived. Again, the image of him stepping off the tower crossed my mind. The image of him sprawled on the ground, broken and bloody.

I stared at the boy, who was calmly eating some potatoes. I stared at him, until Filius nudged me gently.

"Severus, are you all right?" he asked, glancing over at the boy, then back to me.

"I'm not sure any of us are," I responded hoarsely, my voice quiet. Vector heard me, though, and leaned in. Blast the boy. He brought out something dreadfully honest in me.

"We'll get through this," Vector told me gently, but of course I could hear the doubt in her tone. None of us knew for sure. It was kind of her to lie, although I'd never done anything to merit it.

"Like we got through the last war?" I responded, and Vector winced.

"It doesn't do to dwell on the past," Filius said, looking off into the distance.

I let out a short sigh. "I'm sorry, Filius, I should have-"

He cut me off. "It's all right, Severus. Things have been… difficult, lately."

The three of us were silent for a moment. A few more students, entered the hall. "If you don't mind me asking, Filius, who…" My curiosity would be the death of me one day.

Filius gave me a small, sad smile. "My younger brother," he said gently.

"I'm so sorry," Vector said, as I stayed silent.

"It's not just losing a friend," Filius confided quietly in us. "It's a failure. A failure to protect someone I was supposed to keep safe. It's a failure I carry with me every day." His voice was shaky, and much lower than I'd come to expect from the poor man. Grief tightened his features, pinched his lips. He pulled a small chain that was around his neck, showing us a small locket that had been hidden under his robes. He clicked it open, and revealed a picture of a man — one who no doubt looked like Filius, although it was impossible to tell since the picture was so small. We stared at the tiny picture for a moment in silence, before Filius snapped the locket shut and shoved it hastily back under his robes. "Far too many of us felt the pain of the last war. We'll do better this time," he words were a quiet vow, and I marvelled at the strength in them.

"We will try," I promised. Oh how we would try.

* * *

Potter's class was first. It was abhorrent, how I'd come to think of it as Potter's class. I'd raved and ranted about how the other professors were giving him special treatment, and yet here I was, doing the same thing. I must have been mad last night, to sit with him and talk to him so gently. I should have shoved him off on Albus and wiped my hands of it.

And yet, staring at him as he carefully sliced valerian root did nothing to banish images of his near death from my mind. I'd seen so much gore in my life, and yet I couldn't forget Potter's injury, which had lasted for all of a moment? Truly outlandish.

I could only imagine what Lily would say if she heard me talking like that. She would have slapped me, no doubt. If we were still friends, if she were still alive, she'd ask me to do everything in my power to keep her son safe. If she hadn't died. If I hadn't ruined our friendship by picking my Death Eater friends over her. No, even earlier. By getting sorted into Slytherin after she became a Gryffindor.

She would beg me to do anything in my power to keep her son safe. She would offer me anything I wanted, and smile hesitantly when I declined. I would tell her of course I didn't need a bribe to help her. I'd tell her I'd do anything I could.

The Lily of my memory knew me so well. How could her son ever be just another child to me? Perhaps this was my punishment, for having been a bad friend. Forced to protest, to watch carefully over the son of my most hated schoolboy enemy. God, Potter had been such an imbecile. As if tormenting me would do anything to win over Lily's favour.

Although it was hard to argue with results.

I snapped myself out of my funk. I hated this class. It reminded me so much of my own miserable school days, my own failures. I could barely even look at Longbottom half the time. Bellatrix Lestrange, the evening she'd left for the Longbottom's manor. She'd looked me straight in the eye and smirked, mockingly asking if I was _sure_ I didn't want to go with her. Laughed at me when I'd rolled my eyes, offering me a saucy wink, and then she'd disappeared.

The raid had been unplanned, occurring suddenly as the Dark Lord had decided to go after the Potter boy instead of the pure blood. I'd been too concerned about Lily, anxiously awaiting the Dark Lord's return, to know whether or not she'd been spared.

I'd known the truth, even as I'd begged, of course. As if Lily would ever stand back and watch her son die.

I could have told someone. I could have warned them. But I'd been too terrified to leave, scared of missing any news of Lily.

The Lestranges had brought the wards down, calmly walked into the manor, and spent a merry evening torturing our former schoolmates into insanity.

Longbottom met my gaze for a moment, jerking me (again) out of my reverie. He hastily looked down at his potion again. I could see his hands shaking from here.

I felt my anger rising. Frank and Alice, gone to protect their son, and he couldn't even brew a fucking sleeping draught. Their sacrifice had been enormous, and here their son sat — squandering his life. I took a long moment to try and squash my anger down. Certainly I could never say such a thing to the boy. That would be beyond cruel, even for me.

I still found myself snapping at him when he went to add the wrong ingredient. He stared up at me blankly, a terrified expression on his face.

A nudge from Granger, and he threw back a hasty apology, his hand moving from the yew bark to the valerian. Honestly, how did one mix the two up? Yew bark wasn't even used in a sleeping draught, that had been for the calming draught.

I pinched the bridge of my nose in an effort to relieve the tension headache I could feel building.

Actually, perhaps there was a better way for me to relieve some tension.

I descended on Potter's cauldron.

"And what do you call this?" I hissed at him, but I felt my heart skip a beat when he looked up into my eyes. Sweet Circe. Had it only been two days since that fateful moment?

He gave me the slightest of nods, before scowling, the change coming so rapidly that I doubt anyone could have seen it unless they were staring straight into his eyes. Of course he would assume that this was what I had meant by give him a detention. No doubt he would next-

"A potion." There was a long pause. " _Sir._ " Merlin, his voice was simply drenched in sarcasm.

Well, the boy certainly delivered. I would have given him a detention anyway, truthfully. In the past I'd needed very little provocation, and mostly likely no one would see it amiss, although the Gryffindors may complain. He may have been quieter this year, but no one would bat an eye at falling into old trends.

"Detention, Potter, for cheek," I growled, tapping loudly on his desk. To my eternal disgust, it was sticky. "Tonight, my office."

"Yes sir," he muttered in acknowledgement back, eyes downcast. He was staring into his cauldron, at a, to be quite honest, passable attempt at a sleeping draught.

Wonderful. That was neatly wrapped up. Of course, that was the easy part. Tonight… Tonight would be the hard part.

I wandered around the classroom some more, peering into cauldrons, glaring at students, standing ominously behind them right as they were about to do something that required careful concentration. My usual classroom activities.

"And what order do the ingredients go in, Miss Brown?" I said caustically, raising my eyebrow at the insufferable blonde.

She read the order of ingredients off the board for me. "Sir," she appended, sounding only slightly more polite than Potter had.

"And what order is this?" I gestured to her ingredients lying haphazardly on the table.

She glared at me, and rearranged her ingredients with jerky, almost exaggerated movements.

Idiot girl. If she'd made a mistake with the order of the hinkypunk scales and the hibiscus root there would have been a mild explosion. But god forbid any of the students actually _think_ about what they were doing, instead of just throwing everything into a cauldron and hoping for the best.

I peered around at a couple more cauldrons, my movements slow, methodical. Minerva had no problem with classroom discipline, and she'd never understood my need to resort to harsher measures. But transfiguration wasn't especially dangerous until NEWT level — potions was dangerous from the very first lesson. I'd seen too many people hurt in Slughorn's classes to give the brats any leeway.

Except, of course, for the Slytherins. They were like animals, constantly behaving recklessly in the classroom. I disciplined them the best I could, later, in private, but there was only so much I could do and they knew it. Many of them had parents who were far too important and influential for their own good, and they certainly knew how to use it. Before the Dark Lord returned, it was the constant threat of them finally convincing the Board of Governors (which many of them were on) not to listen to Dumbledore and to fire me. Now that the Dark Lord had returned, it was even worse. He understood the need for discipline, of course, but he was far more willing to listen to Lucius Malfoy than he was to me.

I returned to my desk, and sat down. The potions were coming along reasonably well, and the students seemed to be well on track.

Perhaps things with the Slytherins weren't as dire as I made them seem. Most of them, with the exception of a few troublemakers, were generally well behaved. Draco, of course, was one of the troublemakers. I could control him somewhat, with carefully veiled threats about what was proper of a Slytherin, and blatant threats to tell his father some of his worse behaviours (Draco was amazingly fearful of his father hearing of any wrong-doing). But he still got away with a lot more than I'd like, especially in regards to Potter. Oh the pranks, the fighting in the halls, that was inconsequential. Potter could stand to be knocked down a few pegs. (Or he had previously. Now it seemed I was the one propping him up.) The problem was Draco messing around in class. He knew better, of course he did. And yet more than once I'd caught him sneaking ingredients into Potter's cauldron.

I glanced over at the Slytherins. They were chatting away quietly as they brewed. I allowed mild — mild! — chatter from the students, even the Gryffindors, as a silent classroom often built up tension and led to clumsy mistakes. I encouraged them to keep it on topic, however. Quiet conversation about potions was fine. Anything else was strongly discouraged.

Before this year, Potter had always been discussing nonsense with his friends in class. As if what he had to say was so critically important it couldn't wait an hour. This year, however, he'd been much quieter. No doubt due to his planned suicide. Today he was still quiet, looking as if he were sulking over his cauldron. I wondered what he was actually thinking about. Certainly he wasn't actually sulking. Even he couldn't possibly be upset about a planned detention. But the scowl on his face, the tense set of his brows — it looked too real. There was no way he could be faking that. Potter's skills at deception were abysmal. I knew, because I'd seen him try to use them on me before.

Perhaps I would ask him tonight. Wasn't it sort of my self-proclaimed responsibility to find out what was wrong with him? It seemed like the kind of thing that would go along with keeping him alive. Although I suppose it was still up in the air whether he was truly suicidal, or whether it was just his hero complex kicking in. Was the prophecy a way to justify a suicide attempt? Or was this truly only out of need to fulfill the prophecy?

Likely it was a little of both. I picked up a quill from my desk and twirled it idly in my fingers, leaning back in my chair and surveying the classroom. Potter would have to be in a pretty dark place to have decided on suicide and then planned an attempt in less than a month. The calming draught modification would have taken some time to research… When had his behaviour changed? He had seemed off since the semester started. Even if he had found out the prophecy the first night back, that was still a little less than three weeks to come up with such an interpretation of the prophecy, make his plan, and then actually go through with it. I suppose he could have found out over the summer, or even earlier, but he seemed too… raw, perhaps, for it not to have been recent.

Part of me couldn't believe Albus had waited so long to tell Potter the prophecy, and the other part of me couldn't believe he hadn't waited longer. Perhaps that meant now was the perfect time.

Blast. I needed to stop obsessing over Potter. I tossed the quill carelessly onto my desk and stood up to make another round of the classroom. Who knew what trouble these idiots could have brewed in the five minutes I'd spent idle.

* * *

Lunch time was the first I'd seen Albus all day. We had both arrived early, before even Umbridge. I immediately knew something was up, because he had an idiotic grin plastered across his face, and kept giving me small glances. Finally, just as I was finishing my soup, he gave me a wink and leaned in to talk to me.

"Feeling a little hot under the collar, Severus?" he said, and his grin grew even wider with barely contained glee.

For a moment, I didn't realize what he was talking about, because my mind was simply unable to comprehend how such sheer stupidity could come from a man known for being brilliant.

"Whatever do you mean, _Albus_?" I asked, trying to put as much of a threatening emphasis on his name as possible. Minerva was watching us with amusement, blast her.

"You just look a little… Heated…" Albus said, and for a moment I feared he was going to burst into giggles. Thankfully, he settled for ruffling his beard in gleeful satisfaction.

I glanced over the table idly, cataloguing all the different silverware I could use to stab him to death. He had a butter knife lying on the edge of his plate. It would be a little more difficult, but I was sure I could find the extra force necessary.

"I promise you, Albus, I'm quite comfortable," I informed him mildly. I wasn't going to play his stupid game. It was unconscionable to me why anyone would break into my office and set up a lethal trap for nothing more than a few chortles, but then again, I had never understood most of the things Albus Dumbledore did.

"Albus, what did you do?" Minerva asked, peering between us curiously. I rolled my eyes.

"He's lowered himself to the level of the Weasley twins," I said frostily. Not that the Weasley twins were capable of sneaking into my office without my knowing. Actually, I hadn't known Albus was capable of that either.

"I merely gave Severus a reminder to always look up when looking for danger. So many people forget to look above them…" Albus trailed off dreamily, and Minerva and I shared a momentary look of alarm. Minerva had much more to worry about than I did, of course. If Albus had truly gone senile then she would be left in charge of the school. And if Albus could truly get into my office at any time without me knowing, I would have to be very careful with Potter. Possibly we would need to find an alternate location, but what would be secret enough to be feasible? Yet another thing to discuss during his detention.

"Did Albus pull a prank on you, too?" Filius asked, leaning in to join our conversation. Minerva looked even more alarmed at that.

"I would hardly call it a prank," I said in my haughtiest voice, while Albus chortled next to me.

"Filius, did Albus do something to you?" Minerva asked, sounding properly scandalized.

"He filled my room with soap bubbles," Filius said, not sounding irritated in the slightest. Unsurprising, really. Filius had a very generous sense of humour.

"He tried to set me on fire," I told Filius darkly, giving Albus a sidelong look.

"Only the best for you, Severus," Albus told me gravely.

"Albus?" Minerva asked, and it seemed to me that her voice was a little higher pitched than usual.

"I thought perhaps the castle could use some levity," Albus explained to her, trying to justify his inanity with Umbridge's unpleasant presence.

It was at that moment that said presence arrived, red-faced and squinty-eyed, and looking absolutely furious.

Thankfully Filius was sitting next to me, but she took the seat next to him with a loud huff, and immediately gave me a simpering look.

Albus and Minerva looked at me expectantly, while Filius ducked his head down and concentrated on his plate.

I stayed silent, and Umbridge let out a loud sigh.

Albus caught my eye and raised his eyebrows slightly. Minerva's lips twitched. Umbridge sighed again, even louder this time.

"Is something wrong, Dolores?" I said, slamming my fork down.

"Oh Severus, how sweet of you to ask," she said, blinking at me furiously. Was she trying to bat her eyelashes? Dear Merlin.

Next to me, Albus turned away from me completely, and I could see his shoulders shaking slightly. Minerva's mouth was twitching slightly, although overall she maintained her composure better than I would expect of a Gryffindor. Filius' head was still down, and he was studiously pushing potatoes around his plate.

"I just had the most _dreadful_ class," Umbridge said dramatically, leaning right into Filius' personal space to better talk to me. Poor Filius. He was a true hero.

"Really," I said, keeping my tone as uninterested as possible.

"I think you know which one," Umbridge said, and gave me a meaningful look. The worst part was that I did indeed know which class she was talking about.

"Potter's class?" I inquired quietly, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Minerva's face suddenly go blank.

"Oh, you do know!" Umbridge said sweetly, with a simpering smile. Minerva was clutching her fork so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. Albus' shoulders had stopped shaking, and he'd straightened out. I could see him watching us out of the corner of his eye.

"Mmm," I said, as noncommittally as possible. It was amazing how quickly the jovial mood had disappeared upon her appearance, as if she were our own, personal dementor.

"The boy was worse than usual today, rude and moody, glowering as if he had somewhere better to be… Absolutely awful."

That… didn't actually sound like anything.

"So he didn't say anything to you, then?" Minerva interjected, with what looked like an expression of annoyed disbelief on her face.

"He didn't _need_ to, Minerva. I could see his thoughts all over his spoiled, bratty face."

Minerva looked offended at Umbridge's use of her first name, but that was quickly overshadowed by her disbelief at the sheer idiocy of the rest of the drivel that came out of Umbridge's mouth.

"How terrible that must have been," I said, inserting as much dry sarcasm into my voice as I could manage. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Filius quickly muffle down a snort.

" _Thank_ you Severus, I knew you would understand." Umbridge's face moved in something that might have been a smile on a real person, instead of the caricature of stupidity that was sitting next to me.

My eyes drifted over to where Potter was sitting at the Gryffindor table. He was sitting with Weasley and Granger, as always. His hair was dark, messy — just like his father's had always been. The glasses were similar, although James Potter had always worn thin wire glasses that screamed wealth with their austerity. The young Potter's were chunky plastic things, and had the look of one too many _Reparos_. His eyes were a clear green, and there was a flush to his cheeks that screamed vitality. Seeing him like this, it was hard not to remember the pale, lifeless corpse he had been only a few nights ago.

I needed to stop thinking about it. Potter was fine. Tonight we would have our first meeting, where we would attempt to figure out the nature of his supposed immortality.

My colleagues' voices drifted over me and distantly I heard Minerva and Filius laughing together, but I found I couldn't quite pull my focus away from Harry Potter.

* * *

I made it through the rest of my classes, albeit just barely. Teaching was beyond exhausting, especially when the students were brewing. Being on my feet for most of the day, pacing around the classroom, dealing with all the insufferable brats… Truly exhausting. Not to mention, it was most likely hazardous for my health. True, none of the potions brewed before NEWT-level had hazardous fumes by themselves, but no one had done research into whether or not breathing nothing but potions fumes for hours on end held any health risk. People assumed that since the fumes from brewing a single potion didn't have any consequences, that an entire day of breathing an entire classroom of potion fumes was fine as well. But of course, lots of things were safe in small doses and would kill you in larger ones. Many metals. Many herbs. Many things that went in potions, in fact.

There were charms on the classroom, of course, to help whisk away the fumes. But given the state of my hair after a long day, they were clearly not that effective.

Miserable. Teaching was miserable. It would see me to an early grave, that was for sure. If the spying didn't kill me first. Actually, the spying probably would kill me first. Not that that was much of a consolation.

I stopped by the kitchen for a quick cup of tea before heading up to the library. Clearly I needed a bit of a pick-me-up, given how easily I was getting lost in the disgusting sea of self pity.

The library was busier than I'd expected, with most of the tables occupied by students who looked like they were actually working. I wondered how many of the other professors had offered defence tutoring as well. Filius at least, maybe Pomona. Minerva certainly didn't have time.

The area where the history books were kept was dark and cramped, with books piled high on spindly shelves that must have been charmed to stay up. Some students were studying away at a small, cramped table shoved into a corner.

I scanned the ends of the shelves, looking specifically for Hogwarts' history. Somehow, the relevant aisle was even narrower than the rest of them, with shelves tall enough that even I would have difficulty reaching books on the top (and I stood at a bit under two meters). I started to scan titles, looking for something related to the architecture of Hogwarts, or anything about Balarin Bane. Likely there would at least be a biography of him. He was a rather famous headmaster. If I didn't find anything here, it was possible the architecture section might have something as well. I remembered vaguely seeing a book on the architecture of famous historical buildings in the Wizarding World, which surely Hogwarts would rank among.

I heard the low murmur of student voices from around the corner. Hushed, angry whispers indicated something interesting was happening. I sidled down the aisle to hear better, and pretended to be studying the books intently (not that anyone could see me — yet).

"Harry, it's not like that," came a whispered female voice, too quiet for me to recognize. Of course, it was most likely Hermione Granger. There were only two 'Harry's in the school and the likelihood that Harry Mason was studying in the depths of the library on a Thursday afternoon was slim to none — and Potter really only had one female friend.

"Then what is it like?" That was definitely Harry Potter's voice. I was pleased to see my little deduction game held up. I inched closer so that I could hear better.

"You've just been so distant lately. I want to understand what's going on with you!" Granger's voice was soft, entreating, and the tiniest bit morose. I wasn't surprised that they were fighting. I'd been seeing symptoms of it all semester. The distance, of course, was the primary indicator. But they'd seemed rather congenial at lunch today.

"Hermione, there's nothing to understand. I'm fine! I don't want to talk about it!"

"I'm sorry, it's just that you didn't talk to us all summer, and now we're back and you're still not really talking to us."

"I'm talking to you right now!" Potter's voice had a touch of desperation in it. Perhaps Potter was as depressed as I'd suspected.

"You know what I mean! You have to talk about it!" Her voice, which had risen a bit admits the heated discussion, once more dropped low. "You have to talk about the graveyard. And- and Cedric."

"Why?" Potter challenged, and there was the sound of a chair scraping across the floor and the thump of a book on a table. "Why do I have to talk about it? I already told Dumbledore what happened, I told you what happened, why do I have to talk about it again?"

"It's not healthy to keep things bottled up like this," Granger begged. Her voice sounded tired, and I wondered if she realised how fruitless this endeavour was. Potter was as stubborn as a mule — and teenage boys never wanted to talk about feelings anyway.

"I'm not keeping anything bottled up!" Potter lied. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Harry, I know Cedric was-"

"No!" Potter cut her off abruptly. I had wondered if the death of Cedric Diggory could have been the root cause of Potter's radical behavioural changes. If Potter had had feelings for Diggory, then it was even more likely. I vaguely remembered something about Potter convincing Diggory to take the cup with him, which meant that Potter's feelings themselves would have led to Diggory's death. It was unsurprising that Potter might be a little emotionally fragile after that. "You don't know what you're talking about," Potter told her, and the flat tone of his voice gave away what his words didn't.

"I just want you to be happy," Granger said heavily, and I pictured her as being close to tears.

"Hermione…" Potter's voice had gone soft again, laden with emotion and overwrought. "Hermione, I'm sorry."

There was a long moment of silence, and I thought I could hear the sounds of Miss Granger softly weeping. Suddenly, I felt distinctly uncomfortable listening to such a private moment. I started actually looking at the spines of the books. _A Compleat Historie of Magickal Education. Scotland through the Ages. A Brief History of Wales…_ All useless. Ooh, the children were speaking again.

"Harry, please, promise me you'll talk to someone, anyone, eventually. Promise me you won't just let this fester."

"I don't know what to do," Potter finally admitted. "I- I can't talk about it. I'm not sure I could even if I wanted to. Every time I start to think about it, it's like there's this weight on my chest and I feel like I can't breathe. Like I'm going to be crushed if I keep thinking about it. And every day I have to get up, and eat breakfast, and go to class, and it all feels so pointless when I know that Voldemort is out there waiting for me." A touch melodramatic, but I knew what Potter was talking about. It sounded like he might be depressed, but he came down to breakfast early and his homework grades had actually been improving. Often depression led to increased sleep. Perhaps I was missing something. Potter might be having nightmares. Actually, that seemed extremely likely.

"Oh Harry…" Granger fell silent. I hoped she was comforting him in some way, not simply sitting there gaping like a fish. Granger was, after all, slightly more sensitive to emotions than some of Potter's… other friends. Actually, where was Weasley? Probably not studying, that was for sure. His homework grades _had_ been getting worse.

"I'm just tired," Potter finally said.

"Harry, I told you you haven't been getting enough sleep!" Granger scolded, and I winced. Sometimes Granger could be rather indelicate as well.

"Hermione, don't worry, it's fine," Potter said, as if that would reassure her in any way. "I've actually been feeling better these last few days. Things are feeling a little less hopeless now, you know?" Oh lord. That would be my fault, probably. Although if Potter had been feeling hopeless about his upcoming suicide, perhaps he didn't want to die after all. I could work with that.

"That's wonderful!" Granger sounded incredibly relieved. I wondered how much she'd been worrying about him. Most likely quite a bit. "What changed?" she asked. Would Potter tell her?

"I don't know," Potter lied, and he sounded more convincing than I expected from him. "I haven't had as many nightmares this week. Maybe I've just been sleeping better?" I had always assumed Potter was pants at subterfuge, like any good Gryffindor. His attempts at lying in the past had always been deplorable. I supposed it was possible his nightmares had actually been getting better, but I couldn't imagine how trying to kill yourself and failing would help that. Maybe just the promise of doing something was enough.

"Oh Harry, this is excellent. I was so worried about you!" What, was she going to stop worrying now that Potter'd had a couple of good days? My estimation of her character dropped a tad.

"Thanks, Hermione. But I really don't need you to worry about me." Did Potter have any idea how people worked?

"Of course I'm going to worry about you, Harry!" Granger sounded almost scandalised at the thought of not worrying about him. My estimation of her character increased back to where it had been. Not that that was very high. At least one of them had some sense.

"It's just…" Granger was speaking again, her voice soft, and there was an air of nervousness in her voice that hadn't been in there before. "Things are changing, Harry, whether you like it or not. And we're just going to have to live with it." Changing. Was she referring to the Dark Lord? Or to the Ministry interfering in Hogwarts? Lots of things were changing, indeed.

"Hermione, drop it." Potter's voice was suddenly a lot harsher, and I was amazed at how quickly the easy camaraderie had disappeared. Would Potter be so upset at a reminder of the Dark Lord or the Ministry? I didn't think so, he dealt with reminders of those every day. What else was changing in his life?

The two of them fell silent, and I could faintly hear the sound of paper rustling and the thumping of books on the table. Likely they were back to studying then.

I returned to my own perusal, vowing not to leave until I had at _least_ three books that looked like they would contain useful information. I would find this belfry or die trying (or more likely forget about it in a month when something more interesting came along).

* * *

An hour later, I sidled into the Slytherin common room. Draco and Parkinson were in the library currently, or at least they had been when I left, so now was the perfect time to track down Zabini.

It wasn't hard. He was sitting in my usual armchair reading a book.

"Mister Zabini," I said from behind him, and was torn between feeling proud and feeling disappointed when he didn't startle at the sudden noise.

"Professor," Zabini said politely, twisting around. "How can I help you?"

"Would you please meet me in my office? I have something I would like to discuss with you." I could have sent him a note, but this way when Zabini got back he could give them some excuse and quash the rumours head on. Nott was giving us the eye from across the room, and would no doubt have questions when Zabini returned. I did, of course, meet with students in my office on occasion, but it was rare enough that everyone was always interested.

"Of course, Professor, I will be along promptly," Zabini replied politely, and I could see a glint of interest in his eye.

I gave him a short nod, and then disappeared out the door and made the short journey (just down the corridor) to my office. Oh, and what an office. I took great delight in putting up the most disgusting ingredients for display. Honestly, those bicorn testicles were only used in one specific type of potion, and it was a male enhancement potion that I would certainly never be brewing. But it scared the shit right out of misbehaving first-years. I was still debating spelling some lights right behind the jars, so that they appeared to glow eerily from within. On one hand, it would set the atmosphere perfectly, and on the other, it felt rather pathetic to go to so much trouble just to intimidate some students.

Perhaps I would ask Minerva for her opinion. She understood the value of putting the students in a proper frame of mind.

Zabini appeared at my open door, and I gestured for him to sit in the seat across from me.

"What is this about, Professor?" he asked, after a moment of silence. His control was quite good, but I could see a slight tension in his face and quiver in his voice that betrayed his nerves.

I leaned back in my chair, my fingers tapping gently on the desk. "How have you been getting on with Mister Malfoy recently?" I finally asked, and he looked taken aback for a moment.

"Has he said something?" Zabini asked, the nerves gone in favour of annoyance.

"Is there something he should have said?" So many conversations with my Slytherins devolved into nothing more than throwing questions back and forth.

"Certainly not," Zabini replied, and I didn't care enough to decide whether I believed him. I raised an eyebrow at him expectantly, and Zabini hesitated before continuing. "Honestly, sir, it's been fairly typical. Draco and I aren't exactly what I would call close, but I tolerate him well enough." It was well understood by all my students that our conversations would always be private. I found it made them much more honest.

"Indeed," I replied neutrally, hoping he would continue without further prompting.

"Draco is quite pleased that he's been made prefect," Zabini added.

I raised my eyebrow again at his non sequitur. Back in my youth, I had spent many hours in front of a mirror practicing my facial expressions. It was embarrassing to remember, but the results had been well worth it.

"He's been, er, rather vocal about it," Zabini said stiffly.

Of course. Draco had always been an obnoxious braggart. I had made him prefect because, to put it simply, Lucius made me. And because I had assumed that Minerva would make Potter a prefect. Still, her choice of Weasley meant that Draco was even more necessary, in order to balance the house points out. Both of them were rather stupid and embarrassingly corrupt.

"I believe Mister Malfoy and Miss Parkinson may be up to something," I stated outright.

Zabini's expression immediately turned blank. I would have been worried, except that he'd been a rather good source of information for me in the past, and I had no doubt that he would be willing to aid me in my endeavours.

"They're prefects," Zabini said stiffly. He would have been my first pick if not for Malfoy.

"As expected," I replied, and Zabini nodded slowly. "And yet I believe they may be involved in something that would require their badges to be revoked." Time to dangle a nice, fat carrot. "If that were to happen, then certainly no one could complain should I reassign the prefect positions." I wasn't actually sure if whatever drama Malfoy and Parkinson were caught up in was enough to strip them of their badges, but undoubtedly Malfoy would get into fight later, which would do as a last resort in necessary.

Zabini's expression stayed blank, but I could see a gleam in his eye. "What do you think they're up to, sir?"

"That's where you come in, Mister Zabini. If they're reading any unusual books, if they're going anywhere unusual, if they're having any strange conversations — I want to know about it."

"Yes sir," Zabini said, sitting up straighter. "I will ask discreetly around and see if anyone knows anything."

"Very well," I acknowledged. "You are dismissed."

Zabini stood and left the room, closing the door behind him.

I sat at my desk, idly drumming my fingers across the dark wood, and my thoughts wandered. What were Draco and Parkinson up to? Arguing in public, conspiring in the common room… Even if I didn't have a bet with Minerva, I might be inclined to investigate. I liked knowing what was going on with my students. For their safety, of course. Certainly not for my own curiosity and sense of satisfaction. That would be unethical.

Time lurched along, and what felt like only moments later, there came a knock at my door.

I felt my heart race and my fingers froze in the pattern they'd been tapping out.

"Come in," I said, and all thoughts of Slytherin conspiracies flew from my mind as Potter entered my office.


	4. Severus Learns to Inebriate Fairies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! This chapter came out quicker because I'm on vacation right now, but in general I think I will update every Monday.
> 
> A quick note about this fic: I have a general outline for what's going to happen, and things are going to be noticeably different than in canon. In regards to past events, this fic is actually only canon through Goblet of Fire. Everything relevant will be revealed as it makes sense in the story.

Potter entered my office. He did so hesitantly, carefully, as if entering the cage of a ravenous beast. I felt a twinge of irritation, which I quickly squashed down. Now was not the time. The boy in front of me offered an opportunity to examine some truly outstanding magic. I merely had to hold my temper.

And then I remembered Potter's limp, broken body, and any anger I felt disappeared under a wave of ice. I gestured at the chair across from me.

"Sir," Potter said carefully, taking his seat.

We stared at each other across the desk. I was leaning forward, chin propped up on a single fist, while my other hand tapped against my knee, out of sight. Any of my Slytherins would have been offended if I had sat like this in front of them, but I'd never once seen Potter exhibit any of the same manners.

Indeed, Potter was sitting rather casually, his right ankle resting idly on his left knee. He was rubbing his wrist awkwardly, and staring at me.

Which was only fair, I supposed, since I was also staring at him.

The silence in my office stretched on. Potter's face had always been an open book. He wore his emotions proudly, like most Gryffindors. Today, however, he was harder to read. Was that anxiety, in the slight furrow of his brow? Anger in the set of his lips? His eyes were slightly too wide, but was that caused by an emotion or merely an artifact of his intense stare?

Potter's mouth twitched, and I finally broke the silence.

"The Headmaster has recently shown me that he can get into my office at any time, without my knowledge."

Potter blinked in surprise. "Sir?" he asked, polite in his bewilderment.

"Indeed. The Headmaster can never know of our… research," I settled on, for lack of a better term. It was accurate enough, although 'research' made it sound rather more benign than it actually was. "He would be most displeased. Since this office is no longer truly secure, we must find an alternate location for any _experiment_ that needs to be kept private."

The boy gaped at me. "Er, you mean like me trying to kill myself?" he said, more casually than I was comfortable with.

"Perhaps. It is also likely I will need to perform some tests on you, some of which may involve dark magic. We need a location where we will not be disturbed."

"Oh," the boy said. "Uh…"

"That will be your homework for our next meeting. You have access to certain _resources_ that I do not." That blasted map that I hated more than anything. The Weasley twins, who were notorious for knowing secret passages. Not to mention, the house elves loved him.

"Oh, sure, okay. I can do that." Potter seemed suitably determined, so I decided to move on. He looked less nervous now, and was sitting straighter, although he still rubbed his wrist gently.

"By the nature of this arrangement, we will have to progress slowly, with the utmost care. Any rash acts could be disastrous. Meticulous documentation is absolutely critical if we want our results to have any meaning. Do you understand?"

And here it was. Potter looked annoyed. "Yes sir," he said, through gritted teeth. Likely he was taking my words more personally than I meant them, which was unsurprising. Most of the time I was actually looking to insult him.

There was a moment of silence as I examined Potter, and he appeared to be collecting his nerves in order to say something stupid. "I want to try again," he finally said, confirming my theory.

"Do you?" I replied, raising my signature eyebrow. He looked suitably embarrassed, at least.

"Er, yeah. I mean, yes sir." As if saying 'sir' would somehow convince me to let him kill himself. Merlin, I was in over my head. I was suddenly hit by the powerful feeling that I did not want to be a part of this. I didn't want to be sitting here discussing this with Potter. I ached for the days when all I had to worry about was Umbridge, the Dark Lord, whatever Draco Malfoy was up to. I couldn't stand Potter looking at me, asking me to be both his salvation and his damnation.

Yet here I was, sitting in front of him, inviting him into my office. Making _plans_ for the future. I was already too deep in this, and I hadn't even done anything yet. Of course, I had no choice. It had to be me. No one else could do what was needed. No one else _would_.

Not to mention, the chance to research an unknown magical phenomenon…

Potter was still looking at me expectantly, and I let out a rough sigh.

"Why, Potter?" I asked him wearily. "Why are you so eager?" The idiot just looked at me in confusion.

"Sir?" he asked, bewildered.

"Never mind," I said brusquely. I didn't want to hear it, I realized. I could only imagine what drivel would leave his mouth if I pressed him. In the end, did it matter? As long as he didn't try by himself again, as long as he didn't put himself in danger, did it really matter what he was thinking? I'd been so curious, debating his mental state, eavesdropping in the library, and now I found that I simply didn't want to know. (Was that true? I had no idea.)

He was still waiting for an answer, the little snot. "In time," I told him, and it was mostly true. "There are tests we must do first. I plan on taking some samples from you today, which will give us a starting point for our investigation. There are certain potions, most of them medical, that will allow us a better understand of what precisely is happening in your body. Should the potions prove less than illuminating, there is a runic array that provides an analysis of any magic used within it."

It was clear that most of this was going over Potter's head, but he nodded anyway.

"What's wrong with your wrist?" I said suddenly, startling even myself. Potter's hand stilled where he had been rubbing it.

"Er…" Potter hesitated. "It's- It's been sore since, you know, that night."

"Why didn't you go to Madam Pomfrey?" I said, and immediately regretted it. I'm sure lying to her about the origin of the injury would never have occurred to the boy. "Give me your wrist," I continued, without waiting for an answer.

"It's really not that bad," Potter said, and I could not for the life of me figure out why he was arguing.

"Excuse me?" I couldn't see myself, but I liked to think my eyes were glittering dangerously.

"It doesn't really hurt," the nincompoop repeated. "It's just sort of tender. I think you mostly healed it already."

I stared at him, waiting for him to relent and give me his wrist. Instead, he doubled down.

"It'll be better in a few days, anyway," Potter added, somewhat desperately.

"I didn't realize you were a healer," I said dryly.

Potter flushed red, and I wondered if we were soon to resort to old patterns.

"I've just had a lot of experience with stuff like this," said Potter, with a slight eye roll.

"Have you?" Had he? From quidditch, perhaps, but surely Pomfrey would have healed anything in an instant?

"Yeah." Potter didn't elaborate.

"Do you get into a lot of fist fights, perhaps?" My tone wasn't exactly kind, and I wondered why I was pressing when just moments ago I had decided I didn't care what was going on in Potter's life.

"Just-" He looked deeply uncomfortable. Perhaps that was why I was pressing — some strange desire to see how far I could push him before he exploded. Certainly it was a familiar urge for me. "When I was a kid, you know."

That hadn't been quite what I was expecting. "I'm not sure I do," I told him, hoping this strange honesty would continue.

"My- my cousin. He's just- he's- He can be rough some times."

"You were raised by your aunt, Petunia, is that correct?" Petunia had been quite nasty to me when we were children, but Lily had always said she was just being protective. Lily had loved her like no other.

Potter was stunned. "Yeah, that's right. Have you met her?" He looked deeply uncomfortable at the thought.

This was not an area I wanted to delve into, in any way. "Yes," I informed him, drawing the word out. "I have met her."

"She doesn't like me very much," Potter said, and it was clear from his expression that he thought he was understating if anything. Potter's eyes were downcast, looking off to the side. He was rubbing his wrist again, more vigorously than he had been earlier. His face was bright red, and I felt a sudden sense of kinship with him. His current shame was intimately familiar to me, although I had no idea how many of the details were similar. I wasn't sure I even wanted to know. It wasn't my business, and there wasn't anything I could do. Albus had been quite clear that Potter's safety depended on the blood wards.

Black had been furious, of course. At the time, I'd assumed Black was merely angry about being denied the full summer together, but now I wondered if Black had a better idea of Petunia's current character than I had.

The silence was becoming tedious, and for a moment I had the mad idea of asking Potter about Diggory. Instead, I pulled a set of vials from my desk drawer and set it carefully in front of me.

"Hair," I said, handing Potter the first vial. "Nail clippings," and I handed him another.

"What?" Potter said dumbly, but at a look from me he shut up and pulled his wand out. He was clearly about to cast the usual nail trimming charm, when he hesitated. At least he was using part of his brain.

"Is there a charm that doesn't vanish everything?" he asked.

"Give me your hand," I said, and this time he obeyed without questioning. I debated healing his wrist, but if the little cretin wanted to be in pain, I wasn't about to deprive him. It wasn't worth the argument that would no doubt ensue. "Stay very still," I warned him, and he nodded. I took his hand, and carefully spread his fingers. The severing charm was overkill for nail trimming, and I had no doubt that if Potter tried it he would lose a finger. However, with care, the charm could be quite delicate indeed. In fact, it had originally been developed for tailoring.

" _Diffindo_ ," I muttered, allowing only the smallest amount of magic to escape me.

The end of Potter's fingernail gently came off and fell to the desk. I examined the result. Hardly manicure worthy, but it would do for the boy. I repeated the gesture, and by the fifth one, the result looked as good as the trimming charm.

Potter was staring at me with wide eyes.

"What?" I said testily.

"How did you do that?" he said, and the amazement shining in his eyes was almost enough to make me smile.

"Years of practice, Potter," I took pleasure in informing him. He didn't seem as disenchanted by the answer as I would expect from a Gryffindor. "Few reach this level of control while still in school, but it is certainly possible. It merely takes patience." _That_ got me the grimace I expected, but it was followed by a small smile.

"It's amazing," the boy said quietly. "If I tried that I'd probably cut my whole hand off."

"Perhaps just a finger," I acknowledged, feeling inordinately pleased with the praise. Being a potions professor, I rarely got a chance to demonstrate my charms skills.

With a silent twirl of my wand, the nail clippings followed my wand into the air, and I led them into the vial, which then sealed itself.

My mother had never used magic at home, fearful of what my father might say. Even after I got to Hogwarts, the only uses of magic I'd seen at first had been the spells we'd learned in class, and whatever else my fellow students decided to practice. Christmas was the first time I'd seen magic used casually, effortlessly. Filius had been decorating the Great Hall, his wand twirling elegantly through the air as decorations flew on an invisible wind without even a word. I'd been amazed, and I'd never quite lost the sense of wonder that such magic — magic without spells, without _rules_ — managed to instill in me.

That was why I returned Potter's smile. The overwhelming force of childhood nostalgia, and nothing else.

Thankfully I quickly pulled myself together. "Hair," I reminded him, and apparently my voice wasn't harsh enough, because Potter's smile didn't even flicker.

He pulled a chunk taught, and carefully pointed his wand away from his head and hand. " _Diffindo_ ," he said, and the piece came off, and although the result was a jagged mess, it quickly disappeared into the rest of his hair.

He handed me the vial, and I put it back in the rack next to the one with his nails.

I pulled out a third vial. "Blood," I told him, and the smile dropped off his face. He looked pale, and for a second I was confused by his sudden reaction before I remembered his description of the ritual that resurrected the Dark Lord.

I met Potter's gaze steadily, and for a moment I thought I would need to say something more, before he hesitantly held out his hand again. I held his hand carefully, palm up, and silently made a small cut with my wand. Potter stayed still, not even wincing at the pain. His blood steadily flew into the awaiting vial, with only a small twitch of my wand. The easy atmosphere had disappeared, leaving a quiet tension in the air.

It occurred to me then that if Potter had been raised by magical parents, he would have been much more hesitant about giving me blood. Blood was a powerful ingredient, very high potency, and was at the center of many sinister potions and rituals. Draco Malfoy certainly would have never given me his blood without a fight, and perhaps might have thought twice even if it were his own parents doing the asking.

But Potter had been raised by Muggles, and so here I sat, holding a vial full of his blood acquired with no trouble at all.

"It should go without saying, but do not give anyone else your blood," I said suddenly, overcome by some instinct I didn't recognize. I decided not to think on it too carefully.

"But giving blood to you is okay?" Potter sassed. Then he added a short "Sir." as if that made it any better.

I held up the vial so that I could better examine it in the light. Dark red. Thick. Clearly magical, if one knew how to extend their senses.

"Do you trust me, Potter?" I asked him, and set the vial in front of him. The glass made a small clicking sound on the wood.

He looked at me as if I were mad, gaze flickering back and forth between me and the vial between us. "You said you were going to help me," Potter said stupidly, his expression blank.

"Yes. And I will." I snatched up the vial again with one fluid motion and put it back in the rack. I took the fourth vial, the last empty one, and held it out to Potter. He looked almost scared.

"Spit," I said, and he took the vial with relief.

The vial was rather small, and the last thing I wanted to do was watch Potter try to spit it in, so I pointedly looked away. There were other fluids that might prove useful, but they were rather more extreme, and thus I thought them better saved for a later date. Bile, was one of them. And… sperm. I didn't even want to think about that conversation. Hopefully it would never become necessary.

I healed the cut on his hand with a wave of my wand, and a thought came to me. "Potter, you said you had a lot of experience with injuries," I said slowly, my mind racing through my different options and rejecting the ones that seemed untenable.

"I guess," Potter said with a shrug. "Why?"

"Have you ever noticed experiencing an abnormal rate of healing?"

"Uh. What's a normal rate of healing?" said Potter, again looking embarrassed.

"Did your doctors ever mention anything? Did they notice anything out of the ordinary?" An increased rate of healing would be an interesting side effect of Potter's supposed immortality, and would go completely unnoticed with Pomfrey's habit of healing all of Potter's injuries instantly.

"I, er, I never saw any doctors." Potter wasn't making eye contact.

"Ah." I almost felt embarrassed that I had asked at all. "In that case, we will start from scratch. Do you object to some minor injuries that you will need to keep hidden? It is important to know if there are any abnormalities in your constitution."

"Uh, sure, that's fine, I guess," Potter seemed uncertain, but eager to be doing something.

"Give me your arm." I rummaged through my desk drawers until I found a small paring knife, which I sterilized with a slight twitch of my wand. The spell was so familiar to me that I could probably do it wandlessly, except that there was no visual indicator that the spell worked, so I was hesitant to trust it.

Potter rolled up the shirt sleeve on his right arm past his elbow, and bared the inside of his forearm. I could see the blue vein running underneath his skin, and I glanced up at him.

"I'm going to make two cuts, one with magic and one without. Then I will make similar cuts on my own arm. We will compare them every time we meet and record the results." I pulled a fresh bundle of parchment from my desk, and jotted down a few quick notes about what we were doing. After a moment's thought, I also pulled a bundle of cloth from my desk, casting the sterilization charm over it.

Finally, I fingered my knife and pulled Potter's arm towards me. I idly wondered where Pettigrew had cut him. There weren't any scars visible on his arm. Carefully, I made an even cut across his forearm with the paring knife. Then I made another cut underneath with my wand. After rolling up my own sleeve, I repeated the process on my arm.

For a moment, I stared at our arms, resting on the desk. Blood seeped from our cuts, painting a rather morbid picture. Maybe this was one of the things I should have waited to do until we had somewhere more private. I could only imagine Albus' reaction were he to walk in at the moment.

I pressed a piece of cloth to Potter's arm to stem the flow. "Hold this," I instructed, and pressed another piece of cloth to my own arm.

Potter absently held the cloth. He appeared to be thinking heavily about something.

A deep silence fell between us.

I liked to think I was in control here. I was older, more experienced. More mature, more wise. Cleverer, almost certainly. Taller. Honestly superior in almost every way. And yet, at any second, Potter could just revert to half-baked suicide attempts and I wouldn't be able to do anything about it.

The whole thing was ridiculous. Why was Potter so intent on trying to kill himself? The other night, he'd been blathering on about the prophecy and I'd grudgingly accepted it. Misplaced martyrdom was something that came naturally to Gryffindors, so I was unsurprised to see it in Potter. This additional desire to keep trying, however, made no sense. We both suspected that it wouldn't work. So why was Potter so eager to repeat the experiment, before preparations had been made to actually get some data on it? Potter seemed less interested in what we would learn, and more interested in the act itself. I supposed it could be suicidal tendencies, and some deluded hope that my conclusions about Potter's immortality were wrong.

And here I was, obsessing over Potter's state of mind again. Well… in a for a penny…

"How often do you dream of that night in the graveyard?"

Potter's face immediately turned pale, torn from whatever thoughts had been bothering him, and he clutched the cloth so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"Wh- what?" he stuttered, looking at me as if I'd just murdered a small child in front of him. I actually found the familiarity of the look refreshing.

"I have no doubt you are having nightmares. How often?" Perhaps I could have approached this more tactfully. Potter looked like he was about to faint.

He was silent for a moment, and I wondered if he would simply leave. I suppose the famed Gryffindor courage had to count for something, however, because he actually gave me an answer.

"Every other night," he admitted. "If I'm lucky."

We both fell silent again, as I pondered what to do with this information. It was possible that the boy would find Occlumency helpful. Not to mention, Occlumency lessons would give a useful cover as to why we were spending so much time together. If Potter proved proficient, that would be extremely beneficial for his safety. If he proved useless at it, then I could tell the Dark Lord that I was purposefully sabotaging his lessons. I would have to convince Albus to put me in charge of the lessons, instead of himself, but that likely wouldn't be difficult. He would no doubt think it a character-building opportunity.

I could also give the boy a vial of Dreamless Sleep, but the potion was addictive and frequent use led to long-term memory loss.

I decided, for the moment, to simply kick him out of my office and be done with the whole matter. And so I sent him on his way with a fresh cloth, and instructions to keep the wounds clean and hidden, but to do no more than to bandage them the Muggle way.

The four vials on my desk were quickly relocated to my private lab. I took the fingernail clippings and hair and took careful measurements of their lengths before placing them in a shallow dish. I was curious to see if they would keep growing. I would also need a sample of flesh at some point, but that could be combined nicely with another healing test, and would be better performed at a later date. Also I didn't want to scare Potter off too quickly.

The blood would be very useful. There was a potion called the Healers' Helper, which would test blood for any toxins or foreign substances. It was less helpful in that it wouldn't tell you what they were, as that was left up to the diagnostic powers of the healer. There were charms that would do something similar, but you had to cast a different charm for each substance you were testing for. The charm required a clear image of what you were looking for held in your mind while casting, and while it was technically possible to check for multiple substances at once, it became prohibitively difficult very quickly.

The potion would take me a few days to brew, but would be done before I met with Potter next. I also had time to set up a vitals monitor using the blood. That actually required a small runic array in addition to a potion, but since it was a set up commonly used by healers, the creation was well documented. The monitor would allow me to keep track of Potter no matter the distance, and I could charm it to alert me if something was wrong.

I didn't actually have any uses for the saliva in mind, but it was possible I'd think of something. Perhaps I'd test the acidity. I was unlikely to find anything unusual, but if I did, it would be extremely interesting.

I ended up working on the project longer than I'd meant to, drawing up plans and making preparations, but eventually I found my way to bed.

Where I found that the house elves (and please, god, let it have been the house elves) had delivered a box of chocolates with a note that simply had a large heart drawn on it.

Suffice to say, I slept poorly that night.

* * *

Friday evening had the dubious pleasure of being the time of the first Order meeting since the summer. And since I anticipated that it would be unpleasant and uncomfortable, the day seemed to simply race by.

Umbridge gave me sly looks every time she saw me, and I did my utmost best to ignore her. I had sacrificed a lot for the war effort, but this was quite possibly the greatest sacrifice I would ever make. Minerva, of course, was loving it. Every time she saw Umbridge smile at me, she would give me a small smirk, and then raise her eyebrows slightly. I would, of course, respond by slightly narrowing my eyebrows, to which she would then put on an expression of the utmost innocence.

It was a subtle game we played, Minerva and I. Albus had simply taken to nudging me meaningfully in the side. His elbows were very sharp.

In retrospect, it's obvious that sharing the chocolates with them at breakfast before Umbridge arrived had been a bad idea. Still, suffering Umbridge's attentions in secret would most likely have been worse. And would certainly have been worse should said attentions later be discovered. At that point, I would probably need to simply leave Hogwarts altogether, and instead live out my days in a small cabin on the coast of Ireland. I would have three sheep and one goat, and buy eggs from a farmer down the road. And then, one day, Minerva and Albus would track me down and laugh at me until I drowned myself in the ocean.

So perhaps it was for the best, then, that I should suffer this small indignity now, to save myself later suffering.

Regardless, it was done, and the alternate possibilities no longer mattered. If I had been a Divinations professor, then I might have spent more time pondering my alternate paths, but thankfully I was nothing so frivolous.

Over the course of the day, it became increasingly obvious that my lack of sleep had left me a little… well, loopy. I became rather more whimsical than I usually like to be, and it was possible I wouldn't have noticed at all, if it weren't for the fact that Luna Lovegood was in my first afternoon class.

Luna Lovegood was, to put it simply, absolutely brilliant. She, at the age of fourteen, had a better grasp of ingredients and their interactions than many of the N.E.W.T. students I graduated. She could, at a glance, take a list of ingredients and figure out not only the effects of the potion, but also have a very good idea of what the brewing method would look like. She knew that the use of especially potent ingredients would shorten the amount of time required for the reactions, and thus meant that fewer stirs were needed. And more importantly, she could _apply this information to actual brewing_.

I'd been a teacher for over ten years, and in that time I'd learned that teenagers are incredibly lazy. Almost never will they actually apply any sort of critical thinking to what they do, instead choosing to rely on simply regurgitating what they are told. They seem to think that being able to repeat facts, or brew a potion exactly according to instructions is a sign of great skill. And many of them fail even at that.

Every so often, however, I'll have a student that restores my faith in the human race. A student who is actually able to analyze situations, to apply techniques from one problem to a completely different problem. Who can look at the recipes for Dreamless Sleep and a calming draught, and recognize that since valerian root is added at the beginning, it must need more time to steep, and thus would be useless in a stomach settling potion, since stomach settling potions need to be brewed quickly in order to prevent the brew from becoming too strong.

Luna Lovegood was one such student. This explanation is important, because her brilliance often caused me to allow her certain freedoms in what she did in class. This special treatment hardly endeared her to her classmates, but her experimentation meant she needed to work alone anyway.

On that faithful Friday, where I'd left lunch with a bruised side and the strongest cup of tea I could feasibly make, I had rather less patience for idiot teenagers than I usually did.

I had given them a simple assignment (or so I thought): change the color of a burn paste without changing the effect, using only the ingredients we had in the store cupboard. The last stipulation was required after an enterprising muggle-born a few years ago had used food dye to create the desire effect. Which, while technically correct, had rather circumvented the spirit of the assignment.

The idea was to introduce the students to alterations in a simple and straightforward way. Many of the fourth and fifth year potions were in fact alterations of each other, and learning one potion and ten variants on that same base was much easier than remembering eleven different potions altogether. This would come in handy on their O.W.L.s, where they would be asked to describe the differences between such potions.

That Friday afternoon, however, my class was clearly feeling especially lethargic and unimaginative, for most of them chose to grind up the brightest and most magically benign flower they could find, and try to dye the potion with it.

While this technically worked, if one looked very closely, the mundane colouration had little effect compared to the colouration caused by the interactions between the magical ingredients, and thus the overall effect was generally merely some variety of off-white.

Luna Lovegood, however, took an entirely different approach.

"Miss Lovegood," I said, peering down into her cauldron. "I've never seen a neon pink burn paste before." Fairy dust often produced bright colours, but in a burn paste, which was full of low-potency ingredients, the magical effects would come through and thus alter the effect of the paste. So something would have to be added that the fairy dust could bind to, thus causing it to become benign while still allowing for the color changing property. Perhaps dissolving it in a liquid first?

"Thank you," she said primly, and I supposed I had indeed given her a compliment.

"Fairy dust?" I asked, giving the paste a poke with the stirring rod. The consistency looked good, possibly slightly creamier than usual.

"Yes!" Miss Lovegood said, beaming.

"How did you account for its magical properties?" Fairy dust, when sprinkled in one's hair, would temporarily give hair a shiny and lustrous appearance. After it wore out, however, it would leave the hair tangled and ratty, and always worse off than it was before. For that reason, fairy dust was often used in a certain type of beauty potion. I'd worked at an apothecary during my summers away from Hogwarts, and I'd been somewhat devastated to find that most potions sold were beauty potions.

A few of the other Ravenclaws were watching our interaction with interest, but most students were busy grinding away at their useless flower petals. There was always something wonderful about the Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff classes. None of the students were actively trying to sabotage each other.

"I mixed the fairy dust with moondew water first," she explained, tapping a small vial half-filled with clear liquid. Moondew water (which was actually morning dew collected from the moondew plant, however most people found moondew dew to be an utterly imbecilic name) was actually a clever choice. Fairy dust and moondew water were magically destructive, and would thus cancel out each others' magical effects.

"What made you pick moondew water?" I didn't see any ingredient tables open on her desk (the kind that listed the interactions between ingredients), and I hadn't informed students of the lesson ahead of time.

"Well, back home, we have lots of fairies in our garden, and they _love_ moondew water. It gets them drunk, you see, and then they can't fly any more. They spend the whole time dancing around and riding large bumblebees." I could completely believe that Xenophilius Lovegood kept a garden full of fairies outside his home.

"I didn't know that," I informed her dryly. "Moondew water and fairy dust are both caustic, so how did you balance the acidity of the burn paste so as not to harm the skin?" A tincture of fairy dust and moondew water applied directly to the skin would actually cause a burn. Since burn paste was acidically neutral, adding those ingredients would cause the whole paste to become caustic as well. Something acidic would have to be added to balance everything out.

"I added lemonade!" Miss Lovegood said cheerfully.

"I suppose that would work," I said slowly. I don't think I'd ever seen lemonade used in a potion before. "What made you pick _lemonade_ of all things?" We had a collection of different vinegars in the store room solely for the purpose of balancing acidity in potions.

"At home in the summer, daddy makes his special punch with lemonade, moondew water, and rose petals. It's delicious!" Moondew water was too caustic to drink plain, but mixing it in lemonade would do nicely. Likely it would give the whole thing a vaguely floral flavour as well, which would mix well with the rose petals.

"That sounds excellent," I told her honestly, causing some of the other students to stare at me in fascinated horror. It was possible they thought the resulting concoction would be poisonous.

A quick wave of my wand informed me that her paste was acidically neutral, and thus most likely safe to test. Dragging my wand across my wrist left a small burn, and so I scooped up a finger of Miss Lovegood's hot pink burn paste and spread it gently over my new wound.

The relief was instant, and the burn paste smelled wonderful. Spread out on my wrist, I could see that the paste was also quite glittery, no doubt caused by the fairy dust.

"What made you decide on fairy dust in the first place?" I asked her out of curiosity.

"When I was five, a group of fairies pushed me into a patch of stinging nettles because I set a niffler on them," she said, matter-of-factly, as if all of this was completely normal.

"Why did you set a niffler on them?" I found myself asking.

"They wouldn't stop riding my flying seahorse!" Miss Lovegood said emphatically.

"How rude," I said, and that was the moment I realized I had lost it.

"Poor Bertie had a hurt wing, but they just kept flying him around anyway," Miss Lovegood further explained.

"Indeed," I said, wondering how to best extricate myself from the situation. I found I was extremely reluctant to be rude to the girl, who was staring up at me with wide eyes and her hair messily arranged around a crown of wild flowers.

"Bertie was so upset that he wouldn't even eat his turnips that night!" Miss Lovegood continued.

"Alas," I tried, hoping that the finality in my voice was clear. It wasn't.

"But daddy and I gave him some asparagus instead and he ate that right up."

I decided to just stay silent and wait until she wore herself out.

"Of course, the niffler probably would've gone after the fairies anyway, since they'd stolen his treasures."

Xenophilius had been a sixth year when I started at Hogwarts, and even though he'd been in Ravenclaw and I in Slytherin, it hadn't been long before I'd learned of him. He had a reputation for oddity, for arguing with professors over magical theory, and for throwing the best parties anyone had ever seen. I'd never been invited, of course, but I remember one cold November evening my first year when the sixth-year Slytherins had come back from one such party missing half their clothes and speaking in gibberish. They'd all been dazed, with a faraway look in their eyes. Later on, whenever any of us had asked about that night, they would clam up — with small, secretive smiles on their lips.

It didn't surprise me at all that Miss Lovegood's childhood had been just as interesting. I actually had a subscription to the Quibbler (as did many of us who had gone to school with Xenophilius), although I had no idea what to make of it. Sometimes I got the impression that he was dead serious and just crazy, and then the next I'd wonder if the whole thing was not a giant joke after all. Regardless, he seemed to be doing well for himself. Lucius liked to pretend he didn't exist at all, even though they were cousins, but that was a step up from actively working against him.

Miss Lovegood was looking up at me expectantly, her story clearly finished, so I gave her a serious nod. "Indeed," I repeated, and she seemed satisfied enough with that.

She turned back to her cauldron, and I quickly made my escape, only to remember that the rest of the students were mind-numbingly boring and hadn't produced anything of interest.

I spent the rest of my afternoon classes in something of a funk, with the bright-pink paste still smeared over my wrist.

* * *

Being a spy was a dangerous profession. During the first war, I'd been practically a child still, playing at being an adult. Right out of school, and already cast into the middle of a war. I'd only been a spy for about a year and a half when the war suddenly ended, but that year and a half had felt like decades.

I'd never really believed in all the blood purity propaganda that they threw around. Instead, I had been looking for an outlet for the anger and violence that had built up inside of me. Muggles were an easy target, and easy to conflate with the idea of my father and everything he represented. The poverty I grew up in, my mother's face when another letter to her parents was returned unopened. My father's face when he realized I was just as magical as my mother.

The Dark Lord understood this like no one else. Lucius thought I hated Muggles because my father had been a Muggle. Regulus thought I followed the Dark Lord because I'd been swept up in the glamour of it. Bellatrix thought I'd joined because of my love for the dark arts. None of them were correct.

The Dark Lord, however… He had understood the pain, the rage, the desire to lash out at anyone and everything that you could. He taught me to channel that pain, to take the anger and make it productive (or, in a way he thought was productive). I'd been brilliant at potions, which I'd assumed was his reason for recruiting me, but in hindsight it became clear that he thought us something of kindred spirits.

Countless nights were spent, discussing potions theory and my plans for the future (the Dark Lord is the one who encouraged me to pursue a Mastery, something I had been unsure I was capable of). Although he spouted the usual pureblood propaganda, and although our targets were always Muggles, Muggle-borns, or "blood traitors", I began to suspect that the Dark Lord didn't believe in blood purity at all. He had many fanatical, brilliant pure-bloods under his thumb, and yet he spent the most time with me, the half-blood. He rarely sent me out on his acts of terrorism, instead keeping me at home brewing potions. The pure-bloods he seemed to almost regard as… expendable.

The longer I knew him, however, the more unhinged he seemed to become. He became even crueler, even more violent — his cold, calculated cruelty became something fierce, something that burned hot and uncontrollable. The Dark Lord had been brilliant, an absolute genius, charismatic and handsome. What he became was still intelligent, of course. Still clever and sharp, but… almost muted, in a way. His brilliance no longer shone through. Like silver that had become tarnished.

Since his resurrection, this difference has only become more pronounced. He no longer looks human at all, and whereas before he ruled through a combination of charisma and fearful respect, now he rules only through terror. He curses his followers, torturing them for his own amusement. In certain ways, he treats his followers worse than his victims.

I have always wondered if perhaps the Dark Lord's real targets weren't muggle-borns at all, but in fact the pure-bloods he recruited. Seeing the Dark Lord now, I believe my suspicions _were_ correct, before the Dark Lord lost his mind. Now I suspect he struggles to differentiate between friend and foe, and merely hates everyone equally, and tolerates those who are useful to him.

Despite everything, however, he seems to maintain something of a soft spot (as much as the Dark Lord is capable of having a soft spot) for me. The thought sickened me, but even Albus agreed that it was likely true.

The Dark Lord took me in readily after he was brought back, despite my place by Albus' side. He raided my mind, seeing only what I let him, and perhaps only what he wanted to see. He made me suffer, for my failings, but less than many others.

He seems to genuinely _like_ me. This, of course, has put me in a rather complicated situation with the other death eaters. Having our Lord's favour makes me _popular_. They want to talk to me, be near me, so that some of that magic might rub off on them. Others (like Bellatrix Lestrange), despise me all the more. Regardless, it's put me in an excellent position for spying. The death eaters who hate me expect me to act against them, and are unsurprised and thus not suspicious when I do. Others are always willing to trade information for some of my time, and have proven to be valuable resources.

It's early enough still that the Dark Lord has no idea there is a spy in our midst. He is suspicious, as always, but has yet to start recruiting in earnest, or moving openly in any way. Thus there are very few plans for the Order to thwart (which would then imply the presence of a spy), aside from the basic long term goals which could have been guessed anyway. I use this freedom to gather information on my fellow death eaters, to start planting false trails of other spies. I will not be discovered without a fight.

All this makes me very valuable to the Order. My position in the Order is as complicated as my position in the death eaters, if not more complicated. Albus of course trusts me implicitly, and he receives all of the information I have. He then decides what gets passed down to the rest of the Order and what doesn't. Minerva also trusts me, being my friend, and is willing to defend me when necessary.

The rest of the Order, however… The older ones, the ones who fought in the first war, they tolerate me. Some even respect me. They understand the necessity of getting your hands dirty, and they are willing to do anything to prevent a repeat of the horrors that they experienced before. Lupin, as much as I detest him, is one of them.

Black is one of the _other_ type. Those who take me at face value, and assume that because I wear black and scowl at people I must be evil. They're the ones who haven't had much experience in the real world, and think that we will win the war not because we are better prepared or had better tactics, but because we have the moral high ground and thus cannot lose.

They're the ones who make Order meetings tedious and frustrating beyond belief, who on some level don't understand why we haven't already won.

And this is what I knew awaited me as I walked through the door of Grimmauld Place on Friday evening.


	5. Harry Learns to Drink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little late in the day, but I made my Monday posting deadline! I might actually be able to stick to this schedule after all.
> 
> I'm very pleased with how this turned out, but we'll see how well it goes over with you guys. Also: if you notice any inconsistencies or plot holes, please point them out to me. I don't have a beta and sometimes I miss things in the editing process.

Grimmauld Place was disgusting, as always. The front stoop was grimy and cracked; the front door faded, the paint chipping. The entryway was dark and dusty, with a strange musty smell and the faint sense that something was moving just out of sight.

The house was hauntingly familiar. I'd been here a few times for Order meetings, of course, but before that I'd visited during the summers when I was in school, and periodically afterwards as well. Until everything went to shit, at least.

Regulus and I had been… fairly close, and he alone (of those in Slytherin, at least) had known how badly I had it at home. After my parents died, and Black had runaway to live at the Potters', I'd stayed here often enough to have my own room. The Dark Lord had liked me, and so Reg's mother had liked me as well. She had been crazy beyond belief, but when she liked someone her pureblood manners came out full force, and she'd been an exemplary hostess.

It felt strange to be invited here because I was an Order member, rather than a Death Eater, but I appreciated the irony nonetheless. During the last meeting, I'd slipped upstairs and found my old room, still intact (albeit quite decrepit). Reg's room, next door, had been perfectly preserved. It was spotless, the floor shining and the bed linens fresh. The sight had given me pause, for a moment, before I spied the house-elf watching me out of the corner of my eye. He'd loved Reg something fierce, and so I was unsurprised to see he'd kept Reg's room so carefully.

I passed the covered portrait of the dear Mrs. Black, pleased she couldn't see me. She'd tell me to get the muggleborns out, tell me to curse them or kill them or something horrible. Then when she realized why I was here, she would scream at me until her lungs gave out. This was my fourth visit, and she'd yet to spot me. I sincerely hoped she never did.

The kitchen, where we were meeting, was marginally cleaner than the rest of the house. It was clear that Molly had been working hard to get the place in shape, and it was equally clear that Kreacher had been of no use whatsoever.

I was arriving on the later side, since my fatigue caused my walk from the castle out of the wards to go more slowly than usual. As such, the room was already fairly full.

I slipped into a seat between Moody and Bill Weasley, across from Nymphadora Tonks. Mister Weasley was chatting with Miss Tonks about her work as an Auror, while Moody was looking over some notes.

"Tea, Severus?" Molly asked, as she put a cup in front of me.

"Very well," I said, and she smiled tightly at me before rushing off to manage something on the stove. Charlie Weasley was helping out, putting some biscuits on a plate.

Farther down the table, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, and Arthur were chatting quietly. Minerva and Albus had yet to arrive, although doubtless they'd be flooing in any second.

There were many more members of the Order, but we had yet to all meet together. Instead, Albus met with us separately, in small groups. He claimed it was because he wanted to avoid any suspicion, but frankly I thought he just realized how cramped the kitchen would be with many more people. The magic of the house made the room annoyingly resistant to space expansion charms, and frankly there were already too many people as is.

Black was giving me the stink eye from down the table. Honestly. That man had no tact.

I pointedly ignored him, and elected to join Miss Tonks' and Mister Weasley's conversation instead. Miss Tonks was currently explaining the Auror partner system worked.

"-and of course, once you have a partner, you tend to stay with them a while. Takes time to get used to someone, you know." She gave me a wink. I ignored it.

"May I ask who your current partner is?" I inquired politely, and she grinned at me.

"'Course you can," she said with a smirk, but after a moment of silence in which I stared at her, eyebrow slightly raised, she relented and told me: "'s Moody, actually."

"Unfortunately," Moody said absently, still reading his notes. His lips were quirked in a slight smile, however.

"Hey now!" Miss Tonks said, hair turning bright orange. "I happen to be a _fine_ partner."

"Sure ya are, lass," Moody placated. "Why, just the other day, as I was fixing that vase, I thought to myself 'Well, Alastor, old boy, you sure've found yourself a keeper.'" His tone was teasing, and it appeared to be friendly ribbing rather than actual tension.

"That vase fell into _me_ ," Miss Tonks muttered under her breath, eliciting a laugh from Mister Weasley.

Despite all appearances, I had no doubt that Miss Tonks was a capable Auror. She'd been a first year my first year teaching. It had been strange, watching her class grow up, and stranger still watching them graduate. She'd been out of Hogwarts for five or six years now, and occasionally I still expected to see her bright blue hair at the Hufflepuff table.

It was refreshing to see her again, after all this time. It was reassuring, in a way, to see a former student out and about in the _real_ world, being successful in their chosen career. I knew the Auror requirements were quite strict, and I knew that she'd worked hard to meet them.

She'd never been brilliant at potions, not innately talented like some, but she'd worked hard and had been extremely consistent. It hadn't surprised me at all when she'd received an O on her both her O.W.L.s and her N.E.W.T.s.

Mister Weasley had been similar, not especially gifted with potions but generally intelligent and driven to succeed. It was strange to sit here at a table with them, acknowledging that we were equals now when not long ago they'd been under my strict disciplinary thumb. I'd been with them for seven years. I'd seen them transform from children into adults, and that transition had not always been easy. Sitting with them was almost as surreal as sitting with those who had formerly been _my_ professors.

Such was life, I supposed. Forever twisting and turning in strange and uncomfortable ways, forcing you to cling and pray that your hands didn't become too sweaty to hold on.

Miss Tonks was giving me a strange look.

"You still here, Severus?" she asked, using my first name with undisguised glee.

"Merely thinking, _Miss_ Tonks," I said, and she grinned at me.

"Oh, come on, you can just call me by my name," she teased, clearly enjoying herself.

"As you wish, Nymphadora." Mister Weasley next to me let out a loud guffaw as Tonks spluttered in front of me.

Thankfully, I was saved from her revenge by Albus appearing through the floo, followed by Minerva.

Molly immediately rushed to get them settled and get them tea, ever the perfect host.

"Is this everyone?" Arthur asked Minerva as soon as she sat down.

"I believe so. Kingsley and Hestia couldn't make it, but Albus and I are meeting with them next week. Albus just saw Sturgis and Dedalus yesterday, so they won't be here either."

That was news to me, although it certainly made things easier. Sturgis hated me, and Dedalus tended to ignore me completely. Hestia Jones disliked me, although she was careful not to show it, and Kingsley Shacklebolt always carried an air of pure professionalism that made it difficult to tell what he was thinking.

In fact, it was starting to look like this meeting might not be so terrible after all, despite the presence of Black.

Albus started reading the minutes of the last meeting, and I found my gaze wandering to where Black was sitting. He was still far too sickly: gaunt and bony, skin far too pale. He was clean shaven, and his hair curled gently around his head. His nose was sharp; his chin pointed. He looked so much like Regulus that it was painful, but I kept looking anyway.

Sirius Black was a strange character. If he were simply the same man he'd been before Azkaban, then I would know how to deal with him. I'd had seven years dealing with just that person; it was practically second nature. I had known exactly how to rile him, how to get him spitting mad and throwing curses. I had known enough about his deepest insecurities to cut to the core with barely a word.

Now, however, he'd changed. Not in the typical way, the way I had, the way Lupin had. The change forced on you by the rest of the world, where you grow up and move on. Maturity-wise, Black had stagnated, preserving his young self.

However… Azkaban had left him darker.

He'd always had a darkness inside of him, something too raw and too violent, that came out in his various _murder_ attempts. I had no doubt that he'd thought being in Gryffindor was enough to hide it, squash it down and pretend it never existed. He'd always reminded me, just a bit, of Bellatrix Lestrange. Azkaban had brought out that darkness, forced it onto the surface. No longer could Black hide it behind good memories and cheer. The Dementors had stripped him of that long ago.

As an adult who'd missed over a decade of his life, that manifested in strange and irrational behaviour. Being trapped in this house certainly wasn't helping, and his desperation to leave was practically cloying.

Albus had no choice but to keep him confined, given his erratic moods and reckless tendencies, but I had no doubt that eventually Black would explode, and the consequences would be dire indeed.

Black met my gaze with a challenging look, always eager for a fight, and my gaze slid away from him and onto Lupin.

Lupin, who felt so guilty that he refused to control Black and keep him in line. Although even when we were young, he'd never been able to control any of them. He'd never tried.

The wolf was a house of cards, carefully painted and decorated to look like a real castle. On the surface, he was unfailingly pleasant and polite, but underneath he was a roiling mess of guilt and self-loathing.

I hated them both with a burning passion, even more so for the tragedy they'd built up around themselves.

And now Albus was talking, explaining the motivations behind sending Hagrid off to parlay with the giants, as if we couldn't have already guessed. This information was irrelevant to us anyway.

The meeting was longer and more useless than it had any right to be, but the important things that needed to be said were said. The Dark Lord wanted to find the prophecy, wanted to recruit from the fringes of society, and above all wanted to stay hidden for as long as possible.

At the end of the meeting, the topic I most and least wanted to discuss made an appearance.

"Albus… I'm worried about Harry," Molly said, fiddling with a napkin in her hands. She looked anxious, and slightly embarrassed to even be talking about this.

"Has something happened?" Albus asked in surprise.

"It's nothing, I'm sure…" Molly hesitated. If it was nothing, why bring it up? Honestly. "It's just that… Ginny's been writing me, and apparently he and Ron have had a little tiff."

I carefully kept my interest from showing on my face, and instead focussed on my tea. Had I noticed any change between Potter and Weasley? True, I hadn't been looking at Weasley at all, but surely in my inspections of Potter, I would have noticed any trouble with Weasley? When was the last time I had seen them together? Hadn't they been sitting together at meals?

"What do you mean, Molly?" Minerva said sharply. She sounded as surprised as I felt, which was vindicating. Although Minerva wasn't always the most observant.

"They'd been fighting over the summer, you see," Molly said quietly, clearly reluctant to elaborate. "I thought it would get better once they got back to school, but it hasn't."

"Fighting over what?" Lupin asked in astonishment. He didn't know? Hadn't he spent the summer here?

"Stupid stuff," Black said, with a grimace. "Ron's been… Sorry Molly, but he's been a bit of a berk recently."

Molly sighed, looking utterly defeated. "No, you're right. Although Harry hasn't been all sunshine and moondrops either."

Albus didn't look surprised to hear this. Instead, there was a strange expression on his face, as if he'd been waiting for this all along.

"Why bring this up now?" I asked, from the other side of the table. Tonks and Moody had already left, and Mister Weasley was scribbling some runic arrays on a piece of paper. "Why not at the last meeting?"

Molly hesitated again. "Ginny said they aren't speaking at all now, and she said Harry's been quiet and secretive these past few weeks. She said he hardly talks to her anymore."

Well, this was… awkward. Certainly telling them the truth would do nothing to reassure them. The very idea was laughable. Although the look on Black's face would almost make it worth it.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Molly," Albus said gravely. He didn't look thoughtful, or concerned, but rather resigned. I had no doubt he knew something of what was going on.

I was curious to know more about what Albus knew, but I knew better than to ask, and it didn't seem as if they were going to continue talking about it. Perhaps-

"Albus, do you know what's going on?" Minerva asked shrewdly, and for a moment I was taken aback by her perceptiveness. Then again, she had been friends with Albus far longer than I had even known them.

Albus looked… even more resigned, and exceptionally tired, and I could just tell that he was going to tell some lie, something to wipe everything under the rug and leave absolutely no one satisfied. And everyone would start prying, and asking questions, and the last thing Potter and I needed right now was more attention on him.

"Potter's been having nightmares," I said calmly, and everyone looked at me in surprise. Black looked practically indignant.

"How do you know that?" he demanded, as if knowing anything about his godson was a sin.

"He requested Dreamless Sleep from me," I said.

" _You?_ " Black said indignantly. "Why not Pomfrey?"

"We brewed Dreamless Sleep in class." I replied slowly, staring at him. "Potter wanted to keep some."

"Maybe he was keeping it for someone else," Black protested, apparently willing to sound like an idiot as long as it meant he wasn't agreeing with me.

I ignored him. "Albus, it seems to me that Potter would benefit from learning Occlumency."

Black's face twisted, but Lupin looked thoughtful. Albus was unexpectedly delighted by the suggestion.

"That's a wonderful idea, Severus!" He was positively beaming. "I, of course, won't have time to teach him…"

I looked at him blankly, surprised at how quickly he'd taken to the idea and how eager he seemed to be for me to be the one to do it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Black turn to Albus with a look of horror.

"So, since this was your idea, I trust you'll be willing?" Surely Albus wasn't expecting me to cave that quickly? How much of a fight would I need to give for this to look believable?

"Absolutely not," Black and I both said at the same time. Black out of genuine horror, and me out of completely false horror.

"Come now Severus," Albus said, ignoring Black. "Surely you wouldn't begrudge the boy some actual sleep?"

"You would be much better suited to teaching him," I protested, knowing there was no chance of me winning this argument. _Would_ Albus be better suited to teaching the boy? A month ago, I would have said yes immediately.

Thankfully, Albus then had the brilliant idea of appealing to my pride. "Harry needs to learn from the best," he said, and I outwardly hesitated. How long did my hesitation need to be for this to be believable? I already felt like I was caving in too quickly. Ah, I knew what to do.

"Very well. I will teach him, under the condition that he _behaves_ himself," I said, with a significant look over at Black.

Black took the bait, slamming his hands down on the table and standing up dramatically. "No!" he growled out. "There is no way that slimy bastard is mucking around inside Harry's head!"

For some reason, everyone except Lupin and Albus seemed surprised by his outburst. Had they not seen how unstable he was becoming?

"Sirius…" Albus said, clearly weighing his options.

"Sirius, sit down," Lupin said quietly, tugging on Black's sleeve.

"No, Moony! I can't just sit here and let this _Death Eater_ have unlimited access to Harry! Who knows what he might do to him!"

The irony here was delightful, especially given that I knew I would win. What Albus Dumbledore wanted, Albus Dumbledore got.

"If Albus says he needs to learn, then he needs to learn," Lupin said wearily. It seemed Lupin too understand what was about to happen.

"But he-"

"Sirius." Albus' voice was a warning. "Harry must learn." And then with a last warning glance at Black and some polite goodbyes to everyone else, he disappeared through the floo.

Black looked furious, leaning on his hands on the table, staring blankly at the opposite wall.

Molly stood up to start putting things away, and with a small sound, Black's house-elf sidled into the room. He was no doubt curious about all the commotion, the blasted thing.

"Moony," Black said quietly, eyes focussed on something far away. "How can you just let this happen?"

"Were you not listening to Dumbledore?" Lupin said, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Why can't you just let this stupid school-yard grudge _go_?" Lupin appealed to me with a desperate look, as if somehow _I_ should be the one to talk sense into Black. The only reason I was keeping my temper was because I knew I had just won, and seeing Black like this was far more enjoyable than anything I could do to him.

Black glanced over at the house-elf, before his eyes settled on me. "Hey Kreacher, how about you kill Severus Snape for me?" he said, eyes gleaming as he stared at me. The room froze around us.

The house-elf looked between the two of us, looking almost contemplative.

"Sirius," Lupin said quietly, and I detected a hint of danger in his tone.

Black was still staring at me, our eyes locked. I raised a single, mocking eyebrow at him, and he suddenly grinned, far too wide to mean anything good. He grinned like a dog would: teeth bared.

"Just kidding," he said nastily, and just like that the spell was broken. Kreacher rolled his eyes and scuttled out the door. Molly let out a loud sigh and continued clearing dishes off the table. Lupin pulled Black down into the seat next to him, muttering something into his ear.

The meeting was over.

I left the house.

XXXXX

Unfortunately, even after that (admittedly enjoyable) farce of a meeting, my day was not yet over.

It was understood that Albus and I met privately after every Order meeting I attended. I wasn't sure why exactly he insisted on it, but truthfully I didn't understand most of the things he did.

"Occlumency lessons?" I asked him as soon as I arrived, because it too was expected of me.

Thankfully Albus didn't bother dignifying that with a response, instead merely smiling at me.

We settled into a comfortable silence as Albus made tea. He had some special herbal blend he always made in the evenings. I'd scoffed at him, the first time he'd made it for me, but I'd had the best night of sleep of my life afterwards. It was some special blend that he ordered direct from Iceland. I'd long ago made the decision that I didn't want to know any details, regardless of how well I slept.

"Dolores seems to like you," Albus commented, settling a cup in front of me.

"Does she?" I responded. My bruised side twinged ominously. Perhaps it was a sign.

"She seems eager to spend time with you," said Albus, and he smiled around his cup as he took a long sip.

"She also seems eager to destroy everything Hogwarts stands for," I replied, gripping my cup tightly.

"Ah yes, there is that." Albus was clearly not going to be dissuaded, however. "You know, it might be helpful for us if we knew more of her plans."

It took a supreme force of will to not drop the tea cup out of my hands. Idly, my thoughts drifted towards Ireland once more. My cabin would be full of bookshelves, and I could read with the window open. The sea breeze, bringing the smell of salt and fish would enter through my window as I read at night by candle light. The sound of waves crashing against the shore would provide a soundtrack for the potions journal I would read, the soft scratching as I turned the pages providing a harmony for the sounds of the sea.

Then, suddenly — the sound of knocking would come from my cabin door. I would startle, dropping the book, almost knocking the candle over. Readying my wand, I would creep quietly to the door, hidden in the shadows. I would throw open the door-

And Albus Dumbledore would be standing there, with a stupid grin on his face and a bag of scones in his hand.

"Scone?" Albus' voice cut through my fantasy, and I just barely stopped myself from making what I'm sure would have been a very stately and composed noise.

I stared blankly at Albus in front of me, who was holding up a small plate of blueberry scones.

"I think… that I have had a very long day," I told him slowly, and he seemed much too amused for my comfort. This is why I made sure to always get adequate sleep. I simply got far too whimsical- and suddenly I pulled up my sleeve and stared down at my wrist, to find a bright pink mark where Miss Lovegood's paste had dyed the skin.

"Oh, what a lovely colour," Albus commented, completely unconcerned by my increasingly erratic behavior.

I rubbed the mark, but the colour stayed firm. "Luna Lovegood's burn paste," I explained, without really caring.

"She's quite a remarkable girl," said Albus shrewdly, glancing between my wrist and my face. I was too tired to bother with his games, so I simply nodded.

"Well, let's get back to my original point, shall we?" He was wearing what I had long ago learned was an evil smile on his face.

"Must we?" I asked wearily, and he ignored me.

"I, as both your headmaster and as the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, must ask you to do a duty most necessary." His face was solemn, the smile that had been there moments ago wiped clean. I wasn't fooled.

"Please, no," I pleaded.

"Severus Snape, I have but one request of you-"

"Albus, please."

"-and it is thus: You must seduce Dolores Jane Umbridge and find out her secrets." At this, the portraits on the wall which had all been pretending to be asleep broke out into giggles and snickers, and even a few chuckles.

I slumped down in my chair, and gulped down the rest of my tea. "Are you so eager to see me die?" I asked dramatically, and slammed my cup onto his desk, shattering porcelain everywhere.

Albus merely chuckled, and fixed the cup with a wave of his wand. "Ah, Severus. Young love is such a beautiful thing, is it not?"

"I would rather seduce Sirius Black," I told him, accepting a fresh cup of tea.

"Would you?" he asked, looking slightly alarmed.

I hesitated. Actually, I wasn't sure about that. I'd hated Sirius Black for much longer, of course, but Dolores Umbridge sickened me on a fundamental level. My hatred for Sirius Black was at least passionate, and I could see-

I drank down my new cup of tea so quickly that it felt like I was drowning and once more smashed the empty cup on the desk.

"Splendid!" Albus said, fixing the cup again and handing it back to me, once more filled with tea. How much tea had he made?

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I said hoarsely. I thought I could feel the soporific effects of the tea kicking in, leaving me sluggish and hazy. And I'd already been so sharp to begin with.

"I'm pleased you've agreed to help, dear boy," Albus said, reaching across the desk to pat me on the arm.

"You can't ask me to prostitute myself and then sit there all pleased calling me 'dear boy'!" And yet, here we were…

"There's no need to sleep with her." Albus dismissed my concerns as if they were inconsequential.

By all rights, I should have hated him in that moment, but there was a certain glint in his eye…

"Do you hate me?" I asked him. "Answer honestly."

Albus let out a long suffering sigh. "Oh Severus, always so dramatic. You'll hardly have to lift a finger. Dolores will clearly seduce herself, regardless of what you do. I am merely asking you to use this opportunity to find out more about her."

That was… actually fair, and moreover was nothing less than I was planning on doing anyway. Still, I drank down my third cup of tea, stared at the empty cup in quiet contemplation for a moment, and then idly broke it on the desk once more.

"Do you want another cup?" Albus asked, and he was wearing a small smile on his face.

"Why not," I said, and took a scone as well.

"It's been a long time since we last spoke," Albus said, and I raised an eyebrow at him.

"We eat every meal together," I pointed out dryly, and primly sipped my tea as if I hadn't smashed my cup three times in the past ten minutes.

"But when's the last time we truly _talked_?" he asked, and I realized the light in his eye was more intense even than usual, and that he was leaned forward slightly in his chair, elbows resting on his desk and fingers steepled in front of him.

"What would you have us talk about?" I asked uncertainly. I'd known Albus for so long, and our history was complicated. As a teenager, I'd hated him for siding with the Gryffindor idiots over me, and then as a young adult I'd feared him for his power. I'd been jealous of him, for his surety of what was right. I'd spent years afterwards desperately trying to please him, trying to prove myself to him. And then as I'd grown older, I'd come to feel affection for him, to consider him something of a friend.

In all that time, however, I'd never seen the look he was giving me now. "Albus?" I asked, after he failed to answer my question. Instead, he merely stared at me, as if searching for something he couldn't see.

While I'd always known how I'd felt towards Albus (as ever-changing as it was), I'd never once been confident in how he felt about _me_.

"The coming years will be very difficult," Albus finally said, and his tone was more ominous than I'd been expecting. "I fear for us all."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that, so I didn't, and simply stared at him in silence.

His eyes were on mine, but I got the sense that he wasn't truly looking at me. "Sometimes I wonder if the choices I'm making are the right ones," he added.

"Only sometimes?" I responded quietly, and Albus smiled.

"Less than I should, perhaps," he admitted.

Once more we fell into silence, but Albus seemed more at peace this time, more calm.

"Albus, what do you know of Balarin Bane?" I finally asked. The portraits, none of which were Bane's, perked up at the question.

"Hmm…" Albus lapsed into a thoughtful silence, staring off at the fireplace mantle. "He was headmaster in the sixteen hundreds, which you no doubt already know. He is known for being the most paranoid headmaster Hogwarts has ever had." He looked at me expectantly.

"Two of my Slytherins are searching for his legendary belfry," I admitted, with a small shrug.

Albus smiled slightly. "I'm not surprised. Supposedly the belfry served as the center of Bane's spy network, and was located outside the wards." That was new to me.

"Outside the wards?" I repeated. "You mean the belfry was located outside the castle?" The wards extended to the gates, and to about halfway through the Forbidden Forest. Hence one of the reasons it was forbidden. Any marker put down would quickly be moved or destroyed by the creatures in the forest, so there was no way for a child to tell when they'd left the safety of the wards.

Albus, however, shook his head. "That is what makes the belfry so infamous. The belfry was outside the wards, but _inside the castle_."

I felt a chill go through me. "How is that possible?" I asked, mind racing. My knowledge of wards was admittedly lacking, but the very idea seemed counterintuitive.

"Certain runic arrays invented in the past century could conceivably produce a similar effect, provided the creator was intimately familiar with the wards here, but at the time it was considered to be quite impossible."

"Is that not dangerous? Could anyone who found the room then use it to get into the castle?"

"Balarin Bane was _known_ for paranoia, Severus. If the room does exist, it is simply inconceivable that he would have left such a gap in Hogwarts defences. He had many enemies, after all." Albus' tone was firm, and he seemed to believe in what he was saying. I was rather unconvinced. "Besides," he continued. "The room has never been found."

And wasn't that ominous? Could two fifth years succeed where everyone else had failed? Likely not. Could _I_?

I resolved to continue researching, if only for my own peace of mind.

It was ten thirty by the time I left Albus' office. Still early, but not so early that I couldn't retreat to bed, especially after such a long week.

I have no doubt that that very thought was the reason for what happened next.

"Potter!" I heard a sickeningly familiar voice say. "What is that?"

I slowed to a stop, just around the corner from where Dolores Umbridge had caught Harry Potter.

"It's- uh- nothing," the idiot boy tried.

"How dare you flout school rules so brazenly!" Umbridge shrieked. "Drinking is strictly forbidden here, _especially_ for those who are underage!"

Potter had been _drinking_? That was… unexpected. (In retrospect, it shouldn't have been.)

"Of course, I'm not surprised," Umbridge continued nastily. "From such a selfish and stupid little boy. Do you think the rules don't apply to you? Do you think you're _better_ than them?"

I'd heard Umbridge talk about Potter before, and she'd always been angry and bitter. But this cruelty was something new, and it made me distinctly uncomfortable. She was clearly out of line, but it was nothing I hadn't said or done. And wasn't that a wake up call like none other. Perhaps my behaviour had been a little uncalled for.

Potter, for once, stayed silent.

"Detention Potter, every night for a week!"

That was the moment I chose to intervene, and smoothly walked around the corner. "Ah, Dolores," I said, feigning delight. "What a pleasant surprise."

Potter looked horrified to see me. Whether or not it was real remained to be seen.

"Severus!" Umbridge's countenance instantly changed, and she simpered at me. "I've just caught Potter here with alcohol," she informed me, gripping Potter's arm. Her grip looked painfully tight, but Potter didn't seem to care. He was staring at me, expression carefully blank once more.

" _Did_ he now?" I said, with a sneer. "I find myself completely unsurprised." Actually, I was still feeling stunned. It seemed completely unlike the boy, although James Potter and company had smuggled alcohol into the castle all the time. Perhaps Black was a bad influence on him (well, obviously Black was a bad influence on him, but perhaps he was a bad influence in this particular way).

"I've assigned him a week's worth of detentions," Umbridge said proudly. Underage drinking was complicated. It was unfortunately all too common, but often went uncaught. The typical punishment was a conference with parents, and suspension from all activities. She would have known that, were she a _real_ professor who had actually read the guidelines.

"Very good. What will you have him do?" I asked.

"Write lines," Umbridge replied, with a nasty smile. Somehow I doubted it was that simple. A quick glance at Potter confirmed this, as he was giving her a disbelieving look. He'd had detention before with her, I remembered.

"That's hardly enough punishment for a boy like him," I said with another sneer. "Let me handle his detentions, and he'll regret his transgressions _most_ sincerely. I've just gotten a new bucket of horned toads delivered, and I need them disemboweled for class in a few weeks."

"Oh, I don't know…" Umbridge said, looking down at Potter hesitantly. Potter placed an appropriately fearful expression on his face.

"I would be most… _appreciative_ ," I said, hating myself. "I can hardly think of a more deserving student."

"Oh Severus," Umbridge simpered. What was it about myself that attracted her? Was it my stellar appearance? My charming personality? My _heroic_ past? The woman must be out of her mind.

Which I supposed she clearly was.

"Oh, all right! You've convinced me." She batted my arm playfully, smiling up at me from underneath her large pink bow. I didn't look at it too closely; it was like staring into the sun: painful, and would undoubtedly leave me blind.

"Excellent. Potter, we're starting _right now_." I grabbed his other arm, the one that was still holding a bottle of something inside a paper bag, and gently tugged him away from Umbridge.

"Don't have _too_ much fun," Umbridge said flirtatiously, and I couldn't wait to get away.

"No promises," I replied, and even managed to smile at her. Then I quickly continued down the corridor, dragging Potter with me.

"Sir-"

"Shut up, Potter. For the love of god, just be quiet." I strode quickly through the castle, still clutching Potter's arm while my mind raced.

Normally I would turn situations like these over to the student's parents, or Madam Pomfrey. I was certainly not equipped to deal with this.

"In," I said harshly, opening the door to my office and shoving Potter inside. I locked the door behind us, and sank wearily into the chair behind my desk. It felt like far more than 24 hours since we'd last been in here.

Potter hesitantly sat down across from me, brown paper bag still in his lap.

"For god's sake, give me that," I said, motioning for the bag. He reluctantly handed it over, and I pulled the bottle out. Ogden's Winter Batch. Fantastic. At least the boy had good taste. The bottle was about a third empty, and I glanced back at the boy. He was sitting, posture slumped, eyes dazed. Absolutely fucking wonderful.

"Where did you get this?" I asked him. I was not in the mood for this. All I'd wanted was to go to bed early, but of course that was too much to ask. Because Harry bloody Potter couldn't keep himself from interfering in every aspect of my life. He was like dark magic, ruining and corrupting everything he touched.

"Uh…" he said eloquently.

"Never mind, it doesn't matter." It most certainly did matter, and Minerva would kill me if she found out I'd just let it go. However, I was far too tired to deal with this right now. I could question him later.

The bottle sat between us on the desk, taunting me. This should have been Lily, having this conversation. Merlin knows she'd seen James act like this often enough. She should have been the one to catch her son with alcohol, to ask him where he got it and tell him of the dangers. She would have known exactly what to say, how to make him feel regretful and loved at the same time. She'd been good at that.

"Did you drink all of this?" I said, gesturing at the bottle.

Potter shrugged.

"Is that a yes?" I said, in my most menacing tone, and he nodded sheepishly. He was being abnormally quiet.

I stood up, and started rummaging in my cabinet. I grabbed a Sobriety-Inducing potion and a conjured a small bucket.

"Drink," I said, slamming the vial down in front of him. He looked up at me before hesitantly picking up the vial and downing the contents. I took the empty vial from him and shoved the bucket into his hands. He stared at it in confusion for a moment before promptly throwing up.

"Lovely," I said, and vanished the contents of the bucket with a wave of my wand. I left the bucket in his hands and sat back down at my desk. "Mipsy," I said, ignoring Potter's quiet groans.

Mipsy appeared with a small pop, quickly taking in me, Potter with his bucket, and the bottle on my desk. "Would you please get us a pot of peppermint tea and a carafe of water?"

"Yes, Master Snape!" Mipsy said, and disappeared again. She reappeared a moment later, arranged everything on my desk, and then disappeared again.

I poured Potter a glass of water and handed it to him. He took it gratefully, and drank it down.

"Better?" I asked with a sigh, leaning back in my chair.

Potter just stared at me. Finally, after a long moment, he spoke. "Yes, I think so." He seemed unsure, which was unsurprising.

"Is that the first time you've had alcohol?"

"Yeah. I mean- Sirius let me try a bit over the summer, but it was just a taste." Of course he did.

"Potter, why the devil did you decide drinking in the corridors was a good idea? Obviously you were going to get caught." Always the quintessential Gryffindor.

"I was just passing through. I didn't think I'd get caught, I just wasn't- I wasn't thinking clearly." The boy grimaced, clutching his bucket like it was his only lifeline and he was drowning.

"Yes, that's what alcohol does," I said dryly. I had no idea how to handle this, but I was sure I was doing it wrong.

We fell silent again. Potter's cheeks were red, but underneath he was pale, and sweat was forming on his brow. He looked sickly.

"The usual punishment for drinking is suspension from all activities and a conference with your family."

Potter's eyes widened. "Please, no-" That got exactly the reaction I was expecting. The boy was insane about quidditch. "You can't talk to them!"

Apparently I was wrong. "Your relatives?" I asked curiously. As a teenager, I certainly wouldn't have cared if my parents were informed of wrong-doing. They hadn't cared either.

"They always-" he grimaced, face twisting awkwardly. "They always said my father was a useless alcoholic and that I'd turn out just like him."

Ah. That would do it. "Potter, your father got in trouble multiple times for drinking when we were in school, and I have no doubt he rarely got caught." The punishment back then had been much more lenient, merely the week of detention Umbridge had just given the boy. "But he was hardly an alcoholic."

Potter's eyes were wide. "He- he did?" the boy asked. Maybe that wasn't the best path to take if I wanted to encourage him to avoid drinking.

"Your mother hated it," I told him, and his eyes somehow widened further. Yes, this felt better. "It was one of the reasons she hated him for so long."

"You knew my mother?" he asked breathlessly. Here it was. The conversation I'd been preparing myself for since the boy had started Hogwarts.

"We were friends," I told him curtly, and sighed at the amazement that crossed his face. "Lily Rose Evans," I said, and my voice most certainly was not wistful in any way.

"Her middle name was Rose?" Potter said, like a child on Christmas. Had Petunia denied him even that, such a small trifle? I felt… sympathy, for Potter. Although it was hardly a new feeling. I'd been feeling it since three nights ago when he jumped off the Astronomy tower. That moment, him standing on the edge, arms thrown out to the side like some dramatic gothic hero — perhaps that had been the first time I had truly _seen_ Harry Potter.

"Her birthday was January thirtieth," I told him.

"Wow. No one's ever told me anything about her, before." It was no surprise Potter took up the role of gothic hero so well: his entire life was a fucking tragedy.

"Potter…" I said, idly fingering the bottle of liquor. I was feeling off-kilter still from my visit with Albus, from the tea, from everything about this stupid conversation. "Why did you decide to take up drinking?"

Potter's face fell, and for a moment I thought I felt a flash of regret. But that was utterly insane. Unsurprising, I supposed. I'd been slowly going crazy all day.

"I thought it would help," the boy said, and I could tell he was telling the truth.

"Did it?"

"A little," he admitted. "While I was- while I was drunk, it did. It was like I forgot everything that'd been bothering me. It felt- I dunno, it felt like I was myself again. And now I'm sober and it feels like dying all over again." Potter's eyes were wild.

I wondered how much it had cost him to be so honest with me. Because listening to it, being here in the way that he needed, felt like it was costing me a lot. But I was an adult, 35-years-old, listening to a kid who needed my help. A kid who happened to be the son of the woman who'd once been my best friend, and the man who'd been my mortal enemy. I was responsible for her death, for her husband's death, and I owed her _and_ her son the world. If I could do one good thing, just one, to atone for everything else I'd done, let it be this. Let it be saving her son the way I'd failed to save her.

"Potter, there's something special about being a teenager." If I hadn't felt so guilty, and tired, and frankly completely off-balance from everything that had happened today, this conversation probably wouldn't be happening. But it was, and in this moment, it felt like the most important conversation I would ever have.

Potter rolled his eyes at me.

" _Listen_ , Potter. When you're a teenager, everything feels like the end of the world. Every problem will ruin your life, every trial you face will feel like the hardest thing you've ever done. But none of it is _real_. You will get through this, and you will come out stronger on the other side. You merely need to hold on."

"With all due respect, _sir_ , I think my problems are a little bigger than normal."

"Yes, you are correct. The challenges you face are not ones any teenager should have to go through."

"I might not even live to _not_ be a teenager any more!"

"Potter, listen to me," I said, and slammed my hand down on the desk. He jumped, and his wild gaze locked on mine. "Your problems are large, yes, but you're not alone. You have friends who care about you, members of the Order who are doing everything they can to keep you safe, Black and Lupin, who think of you as family-" Potter looked skeptical, but at least he was listening. "And you have-

"Everything I've done, everything I've been _trying_ to do, has been focussed on keeping you alive. I made- Potter, you have to understand, the only reason I'm even alive right now is because of you, because of a promise I made to keep you safe. I am going to fucking keep you alive even if it fucking kills me, do you understand?"

And Potter was looking at me like I'd just ripped my own heart out of my chest. What was I saying? What on earth had possessed me to say any of that? I felt like I was in a dream, no longer in control of my actions but instead watching from a distance. I barely felt like I was in my own body, instead watching the two of us from afar. Staring at two people sitting across from each other at a desk, as they gazed into each others' eyes across a fucking bottle of fucking Ogden's fucking Winter Batch.

"Do you understand?" I repeated, and from my third party vantage point I could see the crazed look in my eye, my hand pressing down on the table, and Potter's look of fear, of bewilderment, of hope, of something I couldn't even begin to name.

"Yes," he whispered faintly, and there was nothing else to say.


	6. Severus Learns to Lose at Wizard Poker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I will confess that until recently, the second half of the story was not set in stone. I had some vague idea of what was going to happen, but I wasn't pleased with it. I've recently redone it, and am much happier with the direction, I think. I've updated the summary a bit to better reflect this, so that people know a little bit more about what they're getting into.
> 
> At the same time, I don't want to give too much away, because things are going to get pretty weird. I'm trying something I haven't read before, and so I think this fic will end up being fairly unique, but it is based on a lot of tropes that have been used a lot (and that I personally love). We'll see what happens, I suppose.
> 
> Also, I think this fic is going to end up being longer than I expected. At this point, this is starting to come close to being the longest thing I've ever written, and after two more chapters it actually will be. Which is very exciting. I'm also very committed to this, and will see it through to the best of my abilities.

I woke up with a splitting headache. For a few brief, wonderful moments, that headache was all I was conscious of. My entire being was caught up in the throbbing pain, that vague sense of nausea, and the sour taste on my tongue.

Of course, it is a cruel world we live in, and in short time my memories of the night before came rushing to the forefront of my mind, and Potter's face was suddenly all I could see.

Then I threw up.

The reality of what I said to Potter finally started sinking in, and I could barely comprehend it. Where had that come from? Everything I'd said was true — in a sense — but what had compelled me to tell Potter the most _painful_ variation of the truth I could have possibly come up with? I hadn't had anything to drink; I hadn't taken any strange potions yesterday. I'd been exhausted, yes, but exhaustion had never before led me to be so utterly foolish.

Except foolish wasn't the right word. I finally found my wand, stuffed under my pillow, and cleaned everything with a swish. The light pouring in through my window was taken care of with a sharp jab at the curtains, and my headache receded slightly. It certainly felt like a hangover, which made me wonder if perhaps Albus had been giving me more than just tea.

That was insane. Even if Albus were the type to give alcohol to people without their consent, surely I would have noticed the taste. All of the dishes at Hogwarts were charmed against poison, although I supposed it was possible that the headmaster would be able to override that. Could he have-

Unfortunately, conspiracy theories were a poor distraction from my shame and humiliation, because Potter's face returned, unbidden, to the front of my mind. I needed to calm down. I needed to stop and think, and sort out what I knew from what I suspected and feared.

Thankfully, a shower and clean clothes helped with the hysteria, and before long I was sat in front of the desk in my sitting room with a fresh roll of parchment and my favourite quill. (It was green.)

The first things I wrote down were the bare facts, everything that had happened since Potter tried to kill himself. Next, I wrote down my reactions, and underlined any that were out of the ordinary for me.

All of them were underlined. Some of them were undoubtedly the natural consequence of the changing nature of Potter's and my relationship, but others were simply far too strong. Curiosity was natural for me, but my obsession with figuring Potter out wasn't. Guilt was unsurprising, considering, but how much was natural?

The process of analyzing my own emotions for possibly the first time in my entire life was deeply uncomfortable and unsettling for me. If I were truly being affected by some sort of potion or spell, however, I would need all the data I could get.

Perhaps during my analysis of Potter's mysterious longevity, I would also examine myself for outward influences as well.

I stared at my notes for a second before crumpling them up and throwing them at the wall. I would think about this again later, when my head wasn't killing me and I didn't feel like never being in the same room as Potter ever again (which was unfortunately impossible).

I drank a headache reliever, and a cool sensation filled my head. The relief was instant, and I felt clearer and more stable as a result.

A glance at the clock on my mantle informed me that it was in fact still early enough for breakfast. I wasn't sure I was in the right frame of mind for large social activity, but given that it was Saturday morning, breakfast was likely to be fairly empty.

Saturday breakfast was served for longer, from seven until eleven, which meant that there was usually a smaller crowd. Since I wasn't on breakfast duty this week, I wasn't _required_ to make an appearance, but it would look strange if I didn't.

A short time later, I opened my door to find Blaise Zabini skulking in the corridor outside my quarters.

"Mister Zabini," I said, as dryly as I could manage. "What a pleasant… surprise."

"Professor," Zabini said with a nod, as if it were perfectly normal for him to be standing here.

The headache potion only did so much. I was not in the mood for this. "What do you want?" I asked bluntly, and he gave an obnoxious little shrug, the kind teenagers everywhere seemed to master innately. Every time I saw it I wanted to strap a ruler to their backs to fix their posture.

"I have some information I thought you might be interested in," Zabini said, and I barely refrained from rolling my eyes. This conversation could have been over by now.

"Well?" I snapped, trying to reign in my temper, given the fact that Zabini was technically doing a favour for me.

"Draco and Pansy have been awfully chummy with Theo lately," Zabini said, with another idiotic careless shrug. Did teenagers think it looked cool? It didn't. (I steadfastly ignored the fact that I had once thought it the height of casual non-commitance.)

"Fascinating." I mean that sincerely. This was a development I certainly hadn't predicted. Surely that meant it couldn't be a lover's spat? Oh Merlin, who was I kidding. Of course it could be. There were numerous love triangle configurations that would explain this. "Are any of them romantically involved?" I asked, not wanting to hear the answer.

Fate was a cruel mistress, of course, because instead of saying anything, Mister Zabini merely shrugged again, and then walked away. I decided to ignore the fact that we were headed in the same direction, and gave him a thirty second head start. The boy had been fairly helpful, after all.

Since Minerva was in fact the poor soul on breakfast duty, she was there when I arrived. The only other professor there was Vector, who gave me a quick nod when she saw me, but was sitting at the other end of the table and made no attempt at conversation.

I ignored Potter's presence at the Gryffindor table, sitting down stiffly next to Minerva without even once glancing in his direction (I had long since mastered the art of watching someone out of the corner of my eye).

"Severus," Minerva greeted me. "How was last night?"

"What?" I asked too quickly, rattled by her comment. With Albus, of course. I had to get it together; this was embarrassing. "Albus was the same as usual," I continued quickly, not giving her a chance to comment on my jumpiness.

Minerva rolled her eyes. "That man is quite the character."

"That's certainly a nice way of putting it," I commented dryly. I took some oatmeal, and inspected the Slytherin table. Flora Carrow was the prefect assigned to breakfast today, and she was sitting in the middle of the table, working on homework. The students certainly looked to be in good order. Nothing was on fire, which was a good sign.

Malfoy and Parkinson were nowhere to be seen, but Nott was sitting by himself, reading a book. The book had blue and yellow stripes along the spine, and a large cauldron on the cover. It was certainly not a potions book I'd ever seen before, and that alone would have piqued my curiosity, even if Nott hadn't been involved in some clandestine affair/plot/disquieting love triangle.

"Miss Carrow does a good job," Minerva said, following my gaze. "She's much more responsible than her sister," she added with a sniff.

I rolled my eyes. Minerva had been complaining about Hestia Carrow for five years now. "Honestly, Minerva. There is no proof that she was the one who convinced the house-elves to deliver tuna to your room every day." Minerva had been traveling for a few days, and came back to a smell even the house-elves couldn't get rid of. If it _had_ been Miss Carrow, she'd done good work. House-elves almost never got involved in student pranks.

"I know it was her, Severus," Minerva hissed. "I don't know how she avoided being recognized by the house-elves, but if Albus had just _listened_ to me about using Muggle interrogation tactics, I have no doubt the truth would have come out."

Minerva and I rehashed this argument at least once a term. "And how do you know it wasn't the Weasley twins?" I asked her, for the sixteenth time.

"I gave the house-elves strict orders not to listen to the Weasley twins about anything. There is simply no way they could have gotten the house-elves' cooperation."

"They could have involved someone else," I pointed out.

"The house-elves would have seen through that in a heartbeat."

I already knew there was no winning this conversation. "There's still no proof it was Miss Carrow."

"She _smirked_ at me in our next class. At me, Severus!"

I remained unconvinced, and Minerva gave up on me in disgust and returned to her tea.

I managed perhaps a minute of focussed breakfasting before I found my eyes drifting towards the Gryffindor table.

Potter was sitting with Longbottom, while Weasley sat farther down the table with Finnegan.

"It appears that Molly was right," Minerva said quietly, having gotten over our fight about as quickly as she usually did.

"You've mistaken me for someone who cares," I said absently, trying to see if I could lip-read what Potter and Longbottom were talking about. I did care, actually. I cared a disgusting amount. What had come over me? Potter and Weasley fighting had absolutely nothing to do with me. I could see perhaps caring from a perspective of wanting Potter to be generally happy, but in that case I shouldn't feel _pleased_ that they were fighting. There was most certainly something wrong with my emotional reactions. I would have to test my system for potions later.

Minerva, meanwhile, pointedly rolled her eyes at me. "Of course, I'd forgotten about your cool, uninvolved exterior."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked, pretending to be wounded.

"Nothing," she replied innocently.

I desperately wanted to ask what she'd observed of Potter and Weasley's interactions this morning, but to ask now would simply be humiliating. Thankfully, Minerva loved talking about Potter.

"They came in separately, you know," she said, nodding towards the boys in question. "I haven't seem them interact at all, positively _or_ negatively. They're completely ignoring each other."

"Fascinating," I said sarcastically, even though I meant it. Why would they be ignoring each other? I needed some way to get more information.

Well. I supposed I could give skulking around the library a try. I needed to ask Madam Pince about Nott's book, anyway. And the library had proven time and again to be an excellent source of information for me. It was how I'd found out about Cassius Warrington's scandalous affair with a Gryffindor, Percy Weasley's completely unremarkable but oddly secretive relationship with Penelope Clearwater, and Goldstein's surprisingly boring affair with Boot, just to name a few. Teenagers in this castle were disturbingly single-minded.

It occurred to me then that regardless of what else was happening with Draco and Parkinson, there was no doubt they were also romantically involved, and most likely with Nott as well. Frankly, I was hard-pressed to find _any_ teenage relationship in this castle that didn't have some romantic or sexual component.

The thought was both depressing (because it meant I was going to lose the bet) and nauseating (because these children were the future of our society). It also, unfortunately, reminded me that even when I'd been a student here, the library had been the chosen spot for clandestine romantic liaisons. I'd been researching for my history essay when I'd stumbled upon seventh-year Penny Whethers and Professor Slughorn in flagrante in the stacks.

I couldn't decide which was worse: Slughorn abusing his authority as a professor by sleeping with a student, or Slughorn being stupid enough to conduct his affair where he would obviously get caught. Although I supposed he hadn't been caught at all, given that I'd been a first-year and hadn't realized I should report something of that nature.

That sickening memory had practically defined my first-year experience. It was hard to get over the sight of that much jiggling flesh on a professor you were supposed to respect. I'd been forced to study potions extra hard, since I was unable to learn anything from him in class, my mind constantly replaying the memory of the jiggle. All that extra study had made me realize I actually quite enjoyed potions, and had given me something to do since I only had one friend, and she'd been in a different house.

Catching those two in the library had been a defining moment for me in a lot of ways, actually. As an eleven-year-old too embarrassed to even _say_ the word 'sex', I'd decided then and there that I never wanted to be a professor.

Alas.

"They've never fought before like this," Minerva fretted, pulling me out of my thoughts.

"They fight all the time," I replied in disbelief.

"They fight _occasionally_ , and generally there is a very obvious cause. This seems to have come out of nowhere."

Dean Thomas was the prefect on duty at the Gryffindor table, and he was casting concerned looks at Weasley and Potter.

"Perhaps you should ask one of their classmates," I said, glancing pointedly at the end of the table where Thomas was sitting.

Minerva pursed her lips. "Now there's a thought," she said. "Mister Thomas has proven to be very observant."

"Indeed. He was a good choice for prefect."

"You know, I almost didn't choose him," admitted Minerva.

"Potter?" I asked in disgust.

"Ah, no, actually. Albus told me specifically that Mister Potter would have enough on his plate this year, although I wasn't seriously considering him regardless. I was in fact considering Mister Weasley." She looked deeply embarrassed. That was… quite possibly the most astonishing thing I'd ever heard from her.

"Yesterday I saw Weasley tell a first-year that all clothes are required to be worn inside-out on Fridays." The thought of Weasley as a prefect was almost sickening.

Minerva let out a large sigh. "I had hoped that the added responsibility would encourage him to grow up a little. And besides, with Miss Granger as the other prefect, I thought it wouldn't matter." I could understand her reasoning, although I wasn't sure Weasley was capable of such character development.

"What changed your mind?" I asked curiously.

"Do you remember that meeting we had at the end of last year? At the house?" She meant Grimmauld Place, of course.

I nodded in the affirmative.

"It was the day the students went home, and Arthur and Molly brought their children with them, since they'd just been to the station."

"I think I vaguely recall something of that nature." I hadn't lingered, but it was possible the children had been around somewhere.

"As I was leaving- well, it was quite astonishing. Mister Weasley was loudly ranting about something or other that Potter had said on the train, and I decided that whatever benefit Mister Weasley might get from being prefect would be far overshadowed by the damage his temper would do."

"Most certainly," I agreed.

Minerva looked back towards the Gryffindor table, but she had a faraway look in her eyes. "I saw them together later in the summer and assumed they'd worked it out, but I suppose their problems must run deeper."

"The problems of teenagers run deep indeed," I told her, pseudo-wisely. It earned me the grin I was hoping for, although it was still a little wry.

"That reminds me, Severus," she said mischievously, and leaned in slightly. "Wizard poker. Tonight. Eight o'clock."

"Who and where?"

"My quarters, and Rolanda, Poppy, and Septima."

Vector clearly heard her name being said from the other end of the table, because she turned to us and gave me a wink.

"Filius won't be joining us?"

Minerva smirked. "He's still too embarrassed after what happened last time." When Minerva had soundly thrashed him, much to his mortification.

Wizard poker was similar to Muggle poker, with the same basic rules and deck. However, there was one significant difference: cheating was not only allowed, but encouraged. The only rule was that no wands were allowed, and if you got caught you were out of the round.

Minerva, as a Master of Transfiguration, was extremely good at it, although Vector's sleight-of-hand skills were superb and she often gave Minerva a run for her money.

"Unsurprising."

Breakfast was finished uneventfully, although by the time I'd headed for the library I'd been practically staring at Potter. Minerva had been annoyingly amused. I'd learned enough to know that neither party was heading for the library, however, which meant my spying would have to be delayed.

And of course, Madam Pince was not at her desk. Nor was she anywhere on the first floor, it seemed. I finally found her on one of the balconies, carefully re-shelving some restless books.

"How can I help you, professor?" she said, her impatient tone belying her polite words.

"I wish to find a book but I don't know the title. The spine had blue and yellow stripes, with a cauldron in the center of the cover."

Madam Pince raised an eyebrow at me, reaffirming my belief that a single raised eyebrow was an appropriate response for nearly everything. It looked damned impressive.

"I'm surprised you don't know that book," she said blandly. "It's quite a popular potions book."

"Alas, I am but one man," I replied, although I agreed with her that it was strange.

"The book is titled _Essential Potions for Pubescent Girls_." Her visage was composed in its usual stern look, but I could see the mirth in her eyes. She was definitely laughing at me.

"Ah." I said awkwardly. "I saw one of my students reading it earlier in the dining hall. Is there another copy available?"

She ran over some mental catalogue in her head, and frankly I thought it was amazing that she was able to manage so much entirely by memory. "There isn't, but there is a copy of the previous edition."

"In that case, I shall check it out, and I would like to put the current edition on hold for whenever it is returned."

Madam Pince gave me a sharp nod, and returned to her shelving. I recognized a dismissal when I saw one, and sidled away back down to the first floor, where the card catalogue was. Then, armed with the call number, I headed over to the potions section and found the book handily.

I wasn't surprised I'd never seen the book before. The area the book was in was rather questionable. In a blank state of horrified curiosity, I pulled _Persnickety Potions for Magical Marriages — A Guide to Giving Your Wife the Ultimate Pleasure_ from the shelf and started flipping through it. The recipes were surprisingly good, although the purpose of the potions seemed questionable at best. Oh Merlin, there was one for flavoured lubricant. Why wasn't this in the restricted section?

"Hem _hem_ ," I heard from right next to me, and realized with a sudden and complete despair that Dolores Umbridge was standing next to me, smirking at my choice of reading matter. "Good book, Severus?" she asked, with a leer.

"Just doing some research," I said, closing the book towards her and angling it so that she could only see the back cover. Dear Merlin, the back cover was worse than the front cover. I put it back on the shelf. It didn't matter anyway; she'd clearly seen enough.

"I'm sure you'll… put what you learned to good use," she said, leaning in towards me. Umbridge was turning out to be more aggressive than I'd anticipated. Damn Albus for forcing this on me. He was most certainly completely to blame for this.

"Perhaps," I said, hoping she would interpret my reply as returning her flirtations, but in a subtle way that would encourage her towards subtlety as well.

Instead, she leaned in closer to me, and was now only inches away from me, looking up at me with what I'm sure she thought was a sexy smile on her face.

I felt deeply embarrassed, both for her and because of her. "Dolores," I replied, and while I couldn't manage sweet I at least managed to hide the disgust in my voice. "We're in the library. Anyone could see."

"That's what makes it so _naughty_ ," Umbridge said, completely ruining that word for me forever.

Thankfully, the sound of the footsteps of my saviour and new love of my life came towards us, and Umbridge hastily stepped away.

"Until next time, Severus," she whispered at me, and disappeared around the shelf.

The footsteps belonged to Justin Finch-Fletchley, who was looking at me with unbidden curiosity.

"Ten points to Hufflepuff," I snapped at him, and stalked off towards the check-out desk, leaving him gaping behind me.

* * *

Unfortunately, my afternoon plans of learning about what potions were most useful for teenage girls were delayed by none other than Lucius Malfoy.

His owl — a completely unassuming tawny owl that he used for more covert communication — accosted me in the hallway as I was leaving the library.

The note pinned to it was short, and all the more alarming for it.

_Come when convenient_ , it said, and I stopped by my quarters to drop off my book (god forbid Lucius saw me with it) and headed out of the castle.

Magical travel was quite possibly one of the best parts of being a wizard. Gone were the days of waiting at bus stops, of walking in the pouring rain, bumming rides from Lily's parents. In the blink of an eye, I could be almost anywhere. It felt like freedom in a way that Cokeworth never had — in a way it never _could_.

Malfoy Manor was, unsurprisingly, the complete opposite of Spinner's End. The peacocks alone were ostentatious enough for a dozen palaces.

The door creaked open after I knocked on it, no one there until I looked down and saw a house-elf looking up at me.

"Master has been expecting you," the house-elf said in a squeaky voice.

"Lucius is too impatient," I told the creature, and before the creature turned around I thought I could see a hint of a smile on her face.

"Right this way," she said, and led me to Lucius' receiving room. That meant whatever it was couldn't be too sensitive, or we would have met in his private office. Unless…

"Is he here?" I asked, as soon as I entered the room. Lucius looked up at me from his desk, frowning.

"No. He's doing business on the continent," he said, with a quick wave of his hand.

"I see," I responded neutrally. I sat across from Lucius, and watched as he dismissed the house-elf and poured us drinks. Firewhiskey. It was to be _that_ kind of meeting.

Lucius' hands were trembling slightly as he held the bottle. The tremors were minute, but they hadn't been there last time I'd seen him. Was he already drunk?

"Lucius?" I asked, as the silence stretched on and Lucius stared into his glass. "Why am I here?"

Lucius' voice was soft when he spoke, almost a whisper. "Do you know how lucky you are, Severus? How truly, _truly_ lucky?"

I stayed silent. That seemed like a rhetorical question.

"Our Lord is not pleased with me. I prospered greatly after his de- disappearance. Narcissa and I have built a life together, and we were happy. And now we are suffering for it."

Lucius took a great, shuddering breath, his eyes closed. "I am happy he's back, truly joyous — but I wonder if my punishment will not be too great a burden for my family to bear. He wants me to find something, in the Ministry, but he won't even tell me what it is. How am I supposed to find it? When I don't even _know_ what it is I'm looking for?" Lucius' glass shattered in his hand, spilling alcohol all over the desk.

We sat there in silence, neither of us reacting as the firewhiskey creeped along the surface of the desk, seeking the edge. Lucius' eyes were still shut, and I took the opportunity to examine him.

His light blonde hair had become sprinkled with grey, barely noticeable with how similar the color was. The lines on his face were harsher, more pronounced than before. There was a tension around his eyes, a tightness in his lips that suggested that these past few months had been harder on him than I realized — harder than he'd let on.

"Do you know what he's looking for?" and Lucius opened his eyes, staring at me with a beseeching, _desperate_ gaze.

"I can try to find out," I offered, and he shut his eyes again with a heavy sigh. I knew exactly what he was after, of course. Albus had made it clear that the only thing the Dark Lord could be looking for in the Ministry was the rest of the prophecy.

"Thank you, Severus," Lucius said. "I know you'll do your best."

The conviction in Lucius' voice threw me off guard. We were friends, of course, but I'd never realized how much Lucius actually believed in that friendship. It almost made me feel bad about the fact that it was all a lie.

Perhaps Lucius simply didn't have many friends.

"How is Narcissa?" I finally asked, after the silence became boring instead of merely contemplative.

"She is managing, as she always does. Our Lord is no worse a house guest than the cousins she routinely entertains, in many ways."

"She is a strong woman," I murmured, and Lucius nodded.

"She understands the importance of discretion."

I had no idea what Lucius meant by that. Narcissa had been less devoted to the cause than Bella had been, but you didn't grow up a Black without being loyal (barring one notable exception). Cissy was the prime example of everything the Dark Lord pretended to value — well bred, with impeccable manners and a deep contempt for those beneath her.

"He wants us to get rid of the peacocks," Lucius murmured, apropos of nothing.

Oh Merlin. Was that what all this was about?

"Those peacocks have been in our family for seven generations," he continued, his voice taking on an edge of hysteria.

"Have they," I said, trying to sound interested enough so that he wasn't insulted, but not interested enough that he continued.

It didn't matter. Lucius wasn't paying any attention to me anyway.

"They came over from India, originally. Tiny little things, hidden in an expanded trunk."

Trust Lucius to always have the _stupidest_ problems. Once in school he'd thrown a fit because the house-elves had replaced his green sheets with slightly darker green sheets, which he said clashed with his pajamas. He'd been a seventh year.

"One of my ancestors was painted with them. How I used to laugh at them as a child. They were so tiny and helpless."

Good lord, Lucius was a sick bastard. Unsurprising, I supposed, given that he had grown up to be a death eater.

"Perhaps you can relocate them to another property," I suggested, already knowing what his response would be.

"Relocate? _Relocate_?" Lucius was looking at me like I'd suggested he cut his own arm off. "Those peacocks have been at Malfoy Manor for seven generations! If I were to relocate them-"

As a child, I'd slept in a tiny cramped room with a lumpy mattress. We'd eaten tinned beans for almost every meal for a while, so impoverished we'd been. My mother hadn't always been able to afford soap, and as her husband didn't allow her to use magic, I'd gone to school smelling and wearing dirty clothes more times than I could count.

"At least then they would survive," I informed him dryly, taking pleasure in the way his face twisted with despair. Honestly.

"But at what cost," Lucius whispered hoarsely, and I had to consciously restrain myself from rolling my eyes. "But at _what cost_."

No cost, Lucius, I wanted to tell him. Literally no cost. The idiot birds wouldn't even notice they'd been moved. Their brains were the size of pebbles.

I waited to see if Lucius had any more nonsense he wanted to spout, before I decided to change the topic to something I actually cared about. "Draco is up to something at school," I said.

Lucius looked up at me, eyebrows raised. "Is he? That hardly surprises me."

"He's a prefect now, Lucius. He's held to different standards of behaviour."

Lucius rolled his eyes. "I hardly care. Whether or not he was a prefect won't matter after we take over the Ministry. The boy will be able to have any job he wants."

Good, that made things easier. "At some point, it may become necessary for me to remove him from the position. Dumbledore will start to get suspicious if I ignore too much misbehaviour."

"Go ahead," he said, waving it off. "Maybe it'll teach the boy something about subtlety."

"Certainly a lesson that would be useful for him." My expression was carefully bland, but inside I felt the delicious glee of a plan that was falling into place. If Draco kept fighting with Parkinson, then I could strip him of his prefect status, give it to Zabini, and then use it as leverage to try to bribe him into telling me what he was doing. _If_ he actually cared that he'd lost the position at all. While he enjoyed the power, undoubtedly he was finding the responsibility part of it tedious and annoying.

Of course, the main benefit was that Draco would no longer be a prefect. That in and of itself was reason to celebrate. Truly, the boy was almost as bad as Weasley would have been.

I checked my watch, noting that I'd been there for almost half an hour.

"Well, Lucius, this has certainly been educational, but I find I must return to the castle." I stood up, setting my glass down on the desk with a soft thunk, ignoring the spilt drink that was still slowly spreading.

Lucius looked up at me. "As you will, Severus," he murmured.

" _Do_ let me know what happens with the peacocks, won't you?" I said, putting a concerned expression on my face. Maybe I would get lucky and the Dark Lord would burn them all to a crisp.

"Of course," he responded, his expression slipping into despair again, and I swept out of the room.

* * *

I knocked on Minerva's door at precisely eight o'clock. Any earlier and I would have had to help set up; any later and I risked being the last to the table.

The door opened, and Minerva quickly ushered me in. Technically, gambling wasn't _forbidden_ amongst the staff, but it certainly wasn't encouraged. And if Umbridge found out we'd definitely be in trouble.

"Good, good, you're here. Now we're just waiting on Rolanda." Hah, the fool. I joined the others at the card table.

Vector was carefully stacking a pile of knuts in front of her, aligning each one perfectly so that the edges matched up.

Poppy was swirling the liquor in her glass around, creating a mini whirlpool.

Minerva was now examining the deck carefully. Wizard poker decks were charmed so that each card drawn was a random value, although the suits were fixed. Also there were eight suits.

It occurred to me that I hadn't actually _played_ Muggle poker before, and therefore my comparison may not have been entirely apt.

There was a knock on the door. Minerva rushed over to it, opening it just a crack first so she could see who it was.

"Rolanda, excellent. You're the last one here."

Hooch let out a groan. "Wonderful, just what I need." She sat down heavily in her seat, and examined the glass Minerva placed in front of her. It was full. Tradition stated that the last person to arrive started with a handicap: inebriation. (Although it didn't stay a handicap for long. Poppy was already halfway through her glass.)

The rest of us watched in anticipation as she stared at her drink for a moment, before lifting it to her lips and chugging the whole thing down.

She thunked the empty glass down on the table and let out a large belch.

I gave her a sarcastically slow round of applause, while Poppy whistled and Vector howled in laughter. Minerva rolled her eyes at us, and shuffled the cards.

She slapped the deck down on the table, eyeing each one of us in turn. She dealt each one of us five cards, face down. I could feel the tingle of magic in the air that meant someone was already cheating. We hadn't even seen our cards yet! I had a sinking feeling that I'd already lost this round. Wandless magic was hellishly difficult, especially on cards that were already charmed, and sometimes it took a few tries to even get anything working. The fact that someone had already successfully cast meant that whoever it was was in top form today.

I examined my cards. I had three 3s: one diamond, and two crowns; a 6 of staves; and an 8 of hearts. Not… great. The three 3s were promising, but if anyone went for 6s or 9s, I'd be done for. Two identical 3s was very good, but difficult to play since it was so easily toppled. I placed two cards (the two non-3s) in the discard pile in front of Minerva, and she dealt me two new cards, face up. Another 3 (of cups), and a 4 of hearts.

Poppy had a 3 of coins in front of her, which was worrying. I didn't have any coins in my hand. Hooch had an 8 of crowns, which was a relief, since it meant she'd be easily toppled (probably), and Vector had a 7 of clubs and a 9 of hearts. I'd need to keep an eye on her.

Minerva didn't have any cards in front of her, and she gave me a wink when I looked over at her. She carefully placed two knuts in the center. I looked around the table again, before putting two knuts in as well.

I concentrated on changing my 3 of diamonds into a 3 of coins. That would help alleviate the risk from Poppy, although there was no telling if anyone else had a 3 of diamonds as well. Although… if I could change the 4 of hearts into a 4 of diamonds, then that would-

Poppy, Hooch, and Vector had all met the stakes, and Minerva had just revealed a three-card Merlin, which was three cards whose values totalled 21. One of the cards was a 3 of diamonds.

"Looking nervous there, Severus," Minerva said, and dropped another coin in the center. Shit.

I played my 3s of crowns. Better not risk diluting the strength with other suits, especially wit didn't have still on the table.

Poppy, glorious woman that she was, played a four-card Merlin containing one of the same cards as Minerva's, and Minerva was out of the round.

"Shite," Minerva swore. She clearly hadn't seen that coming.

Hooch played a three-card broken royal, which was a 6 of staves, a 7 of swords, and her 8 of crowns. Very nice, but especially vulnerable to swords. I would be surprised if she lasted through another round.

Vector played a double twist, which was four cards of two different suits and two different numbers (it was a double twist because there were two of each — a triple twist would have been three and one).

Minerva dealt us each two new cards.

I had an 8 of diamonds… which became a 3 of diamonds, thank you very much. That was easy to magic. I also had a 7 of swords, which would have been perfect to topple Hooch except that I couldn't use it without toppling myself as well. Unless… what were the requirements for a pig-in-the-middle? Could you do it with 7s?

I had to think fast. I slapped down all the rest of my 3s, even though it meant I would now be vulnerable to a couple of suits. I didn't bother with the 7 yet, deciding to save it in hand in case I remembered the fucking rules. I finally tried to concentrate on changing my 4, but the round was getting fast-paced, and since I was on my third casting, I was starting to lose focus.

Poppy strengthened her Merlin by adding an 8 of staves, possible since 8s counted as 0s this round (because an 8 had been used in a broken royal). Hooch tried to strengthen her hand, but got knocked out by Vector with a well-placed six of swords (especially good against Hooch's hand since the staves had been a 6).

Minerva dealt more cards, and play continued around. I got knocked out by Poppy, who then got knocked out by Vector who then proceeded to do a most undignified victory jig.

"Really, Septima," Poppy said. "There's no need for such poor showmanship."

"Oh please, don't even try that, Poppy. Last time you made poor Filius tango with you when you won!"

Poppy humphed, but I saw a smile on her face nonetheless.

"Drinks!" Hooch roared, collecting glasses and a bottle from Minerva's liquor cabinet. Anyone who got knocked out of a round had to drink.

"Really now?" Minerva asked disapprovingly. "Abby's Honeyed Mead?" Abby was, of course, Aberforth Dumbledore, who every summer brewed a batch of the thickest, sweetest honeyed mead around. It was absolutely awful, although Albus loved it.

"Oops, wrong bottle," Hooch said, and swapped it out for a bottle of Ogden's Winter Batch.

I stared at the bottle. Even here, surrounded by my colleagues on a Saturday evening when I was supposed to be _relaxing_ , I couldn't escape Harry bloody Potter.

"Something wrong, Severus?" Poppy asked, noticing my stare. I looked up, and the four women were staring at me, waiting for an answer.

"I've had a hell of a week," I admitted with a shrug (I was spending far too much time around teenagers, as always), and Minerva bumped my shoulder congenially.

"I'll drink to that," Hooch said, raising her glass.

"Cheers," Poppy said, raising hers as well.

Vector finally sat back down at the table, and we all clinked our glasses together obligingly.

The rest of the game continued, a small smile stubbornly refusing to leave my face.

* * *

That night, I dreamt of the Dark Lord.

He was as he had been, before he died. He was standing in front of a window, his back to me, looking out at a heavy rainstorm. We were in his office, the one he'd always used to use. It was large, and would have been quite spacious were it not crammed with bookshelves overflowing with books.

"Severus," the Dark Lord said quietly, still facing away. I could just make out the reflection of his face in the window, but I couldn't see his expression.

"Yes, my lord?" I murmured, vaguely aware that I was dreaming but unable to control my actions. The dream was more vivid than usual, a fact I would realize once I woke up.

"What do you see, when you look out the window?"

"Rain?" I said, much too snarkily, but the Dark Lord laughed.

"Past the rain," he suggested, and I looked outside. We were in the middle of London, high up, apparently, because the city stretched out in front of us. I could see little lights, covering the streets.

"The city. People. Their cars, spreading toxins into the sky." Cokeworth had been especially polluted, and I'd had a cough almost my entire childhood. I had no idea what the Dark Lord wanted me to say.

"All true. Muggles do love their toxins.

"I grew up in this city, you know," he continued, after a moment of silence. His tone was conversational, but I still couldn't see his expression. His stance was relaxed, hands resting lightly on the window sill. His dark robes were loose, and likely open in the front although I couldn't see to verify. His dark hair was mussed slightly from the neat perfection he usually kept it in.

"My lord?" I prompted quietly, from my seat by his desk. A large armchair, upholstered in dark green.

"In an orphanage, right over there. That's why I chose this building, you see. Deep in the heart of Muggle London, yet here we are, perched overheard like vultures waiting for their prey to die."

I stayed silent, unsure of how to respond.

"I watch the orphanage sometimes. I enjoy seeing it from so far above. Of course, it hasn't been an orphanage for years. Good riddance, certainly."

The Dark Lord suddenly spun around, and leaned back against the window. He peered at me with a peculiar expression, one I couldn't quite identify. His robes were indeed open, revealing a starched white button down over black trousers. He wasn't wearing shoes, just speckled grey socks, and he wiggled his toes on the thick carpet.

"Did you know, _Severus_ , that you are the first of my Death Eaters to see my private office?"

Doubtless no one else even knew it was in Muggle London. The Dark Lord always held meetings at someone's manor. It was considered a great honor.

"A great honor, my lord," I told him honestly.

He smirked at me, and I felt a flash of fear. I suddenly couldn't ignore that there was blood on the carpet, still fresh. But why? Whose blood was it? Was this a dream or a nightmare?

The Dark Lord stepped over to me, gracefully avoiding the pools of glistening red, and sat down on the arm of my seat.

I kept my gaze on the blood, even as I heard him settle in and felt the warmth of his body next to me.

"I would never invite any of the others here. They are charming, in their loyalty, but overall rather underwhelming."

The edge of the Dark Lord's robe had settled next to me, and was touching my thigh.

"Not like _you,_ Severus. You burn bright, where the rest are mere embers."

Was this a memory? It felt like it, more real than a typical dream, but certainly this had never happened to me. There was a vague sense of awareness, of something important happening in my mind that I needed to pay attention to, but I was lost in the dream.

"Look at me, Severus," the Dark Lord said, and I turned to gaze up at him. He said my name like it was a sin, soft and sultry.

My stomach churned.

"As you wish, my lord," I whispered, and his eyes burned.

He leaned in close to me, and-

* * *

I shot up in bed, heart pounding and sweat drenching my brow.

"What the _fuck_."


	7. Harry Learns to Disembowel Toads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm switching to Sunday updates.

**Chapter 7 — Harry Learns to Disembowel Toads**

**Monday**

Potter fingered the knife. His calloused fingers touched the blade delicately, gently feeling the edge. His other hand was wrapped around a toad. With a quick flick of his fingers, he flipped the knife around, hilt hitting his palm. His fist closed around the knife, and he plunged it into the stomach of the toad, twisted it, and made a jerking motion outwards.

Entrails fell onto the desk he was standing over, landing in the awaiting jar. Potter tossed the toad carcass onto a small pile.

The boy wonder let out a loud sigh, and wiped some sweat off his brow with the sleeve rolled up just past his wrist.

I was leaning against the front of my desk, hands braced on the edge behind me. I knew Potter could tell that I was staring at him, but he was ignoring me in favour of gutting some toads.

He'd been indignant, of course, when I sat him down with his bucket. The idiot thought that my taking his detentions from Umbridge had somehow absolved him of his punishment. The threat of handing his punishment over to Molly instead had worked wonders, however, and he'd shut up and promptly started disemboweling.

"The headmaster asked me to teach you Occlumency," I finally said, and Potter looked up at me. He was holding the bloody knife in one hand, and in the other he held a toad with innards trailing out of it. The Occlumency-disguised-as-detentions cover meant I was at least semi-comfortable meeting in my classroom for our experiments this week. Albus at least wouldn't question why he was here, and I'd manage to wring a promise from him yesterday not to interrupt us at all, as a concession for being forced to work with the boy. It's something I would have done even if I had merely been teaching Occlumency, as things would no doubt get difficult and… messy. The door was also locked, which would suffice to deter everyone else.

"What? Occlu-whatsit?" he asked, because of course he wouldn't know what I was talking about.

" _Occlumency_ , Potter, is the art of learning to obfuscate your thoughts and protect your mind." I picked up a quill from my desk and started twirling it idly. It was the dark green one I loved.

"Why do I need to learn it?" Potter asked, still so confrontational. I supposed I was hardly one to talk, but I currently wasn't in the mood. I felt wiped out; completely exhausted. I hadn't gotten a real night's sleep in over a week now.

"The headmaster feels it will be useful against the Dark Lord. And it might help with your nightmares." Not that it helped with mine. I'd had another dream about the Dark Lord last night. We'd been in his office, once again, and had sat and discussed potions theory for hours. It had been one of the most intellectually stimulating conversations I'd ever had in my life, and it had given me a dozen ideas at least for possible potions and modifications.

It also hadn't been a memory. My mind was _creating_ these scenarios.

"Really?" Potter asked, hope shining disgustingly obviously on his face.

"Occlumency requires firm mental control. The techniques required rely heavily on various forms of meditation. That skill will help you manage your nightmares."

"Is it hard?" Potter asked, seemingly dismayed by the word 'meditation'. Being Muggle-raised, he probably had some idea of what that was. Although doubtless anything he'd heard of it would have been negative. Petunia had been firmly against any sort of 'new-age nonsense' when we were children. She didn't strike me as the type to undergo a lot of personal growth, either.

"Exceedingly," I told him, and Potter scrunched up his face. "But although there are many steps, each is useful in its own way. While it is difficult, the difficulty lies not in the complexity, but in the perseverance required to actually see an affect. And you, Potter, are nothing if not stubborn."

"So what do I do?" the twit asked, and I smirked.

"Clear your mind, Potter."

He liked that about as much as I expected.

"How do I do that?" he asked indignantly. He squeezed the toad slightly in irritation, forcing some blood out and spilling it on the desk. The whole scene was amusingly morbid.

"That's what meditation is. You need to empty your mind. Calm your thoughts. That way, if someone were to look inside it right now, they would not see anything." Occlumency was a combination of not thinking the things you wanted to keep hidden (which required tremendous discipline) and focusing your own magical power internally in order to deflect magical attacks. In theory, focusing your magical power wasn't required if you were good enough at simply not thinking about something, but in practice it was almost impossible. Pink elephants, and all that. Using magical power to supplement your defences was therefore a necessity.

"And I have to start now?" Potter whined, looking at the gory desk in front of him in despair.

I rolled my eyes while he was looking away. "Having a menial task to do will help, not hinder, your efforts. What were you thinking about just now, while you were working?"

"Er… I was thinking about how much detention sucked, and then I guess I was thinking about toads, and I remembered when I was a kid there was a toad in the garden I used to play with, and then I started thinking about snakes, and then that reminded me of Vold-" he cut himself off suddenly.

I raised an eyebrow at him, and he turned red. Very suspicious. However, I also didn't care.

"Clearing your mind is harder than it sounds," I informed him, and he scowled at the toad. At least he knew better by now than to scowl at me.

"It _sounds_ really bloody hard," he muttered.

"Indeed." He looked back up at me and I gazed idly at him for a moment, considering. "Perhaps you should start then."

"But you haven't told me what to _do_!" Potter practically wailed, and I just barely refrained from rolling my eyes at him again. Honestly. Teenagers were so tedious. Why had I agreed to help him?

Oh right. The vow, the war, the fact that he'd thrown himself off the Astronomy tower a week ago — all very compelling reasons. Fuck.

"Clearing your mind ultimately involves not thinking about anything at all. However, since this is extremely difficult, you might start by instead focussing on one thing, and not allowing any other thoughts to intrude. In this case," I gestured with the quill at the pile of toads. "That involves concentrating only on your work, and not letting your thoughts drift."

Potter's gaze followed my quill back to the toads, and he looked dismayed. However, after only a moment's pause he once more jerked into motion and resumed his work.

Which, unfortunately, meant I was once more alone with my thoughts. I set my quill down and picked up _Essential Potions for Pubescent Girls_ , carefully charmed to look like the seventh-year potions text. I'd looked over it twice now, and still had no idea what Nott could have wanted it for. All the potions were very personal in nature: dealing with periods, contraception, pregnancy, and interspersed with the occasional healing potion. There was actually a very nice recipe for a calming draught that was purposefully more mild so as not to cause long-term damage.

It was possible Nott wanted some potion for a friend, but I'd never seen Nott especially close to any of the female students. Or anyone in general, really. Perhaps he was making a potion for Parkinson? Parkinson was a stronger brewer than him, however, so why wouldn't she make it herself?

I supposed it was possible that Nott was reading it for fun (gods, why), or wanted one of the potions for himself, although there were countless other texts that would do just as well, if not better, if he was looking for a healing potion. It was also possible that Nott was biologically female, although if that were the case, and he was comfortable advertising that fact at the breakfast table, then wouldn't I have known by now? Or countless other reasons he could have for reading such a book, all of which were perfectly understandable and obvious once you'd heard them.

Regardless, I had no idea. Which meant I would need to keep investigating.

Meanwhile, my dreams about the Dark Lord were potentially a much bigger problem. I'd dreamt about the Dark Lord before, of course, but all my previous dreams were either heavily based in memory, or fantastical nightmares. These dreams were neither. Both dreams had been entirely invented, and had featured a calm, congenial Dark Lord.

The dreams were another thing to add to my list of strange occurrences. I was confident that I was being manipulated in some way, but I had no idea how. My Occlumency shields were as solid as ever, I'd even had Albus check them for me yesterday. The potions to check for external influences, which I'd brewed to use on Potter, would be done later tonight. I had more than enough to check myself as well.

But the _nature_ of these influences was so bizarre. If it had just been the dreams, I would simply assume the Dark Lord had somehow found yet another way to manipulate me. However, my strange feelings towards Potter were also suspect. If they were being caused by the Dark Lord, then why weren't they increasingly _negative_ , rather than increasingly positive? None of this made any sense.

"Potter!" I suddenly snapped, and the boy jumped. "What are you currently thinking about?"

Potter blushed, his current toad slipping from his fingers. "Er- Well-" So clearly not toads, then. That was unsurprising.

"Clean up the desk, and then get over here. I'm going to check your arm before you leave."

The boy looked positively thrilled at the prospect of being able to leave, and cleaned up with a surprising speed. Hefting his bag over his shoulder, he walked over to me, and rolled up his sleeve the rest of the way past his elbow.

Of course. The cuts were completely gone.

I carefully undid the buttons on my cuff, and rolled up my sleeve as well. There were two thin lines on my forearm, still a bright, angry red.

Potter stared at my arm, eyes wide. "Holy shit," he breathed.

"Crude, but apt," I said, and he blinked.

"Er, yeah. I've got bloody super powers!" The boy looked, quite frankly, stunned.

"You're a wizard, Potter," I said slowly.

"Yeah, but this is- It's, er, different. You know." Potter was looking up at me with an expression of wonder on his face, an expression I'd never seen up close on him before. I felt distinctly unnerved.

"There are some books you should check out of the library," I said, changing the subject in the hopes that his expression would disappear. Thankfully, it did.

"Oh, yeah, sure." He looked at me expectantly, now.

"There are quite a few. You should write them down." Honestly, did the boy think he was going to remember all the titles? If his memory were that good, he'd be doing much better in my class.

"Uh- right, okay." He started rummaging around in his bag, and eventually triumphantly pulled out a clean, if wrinkled, piece of parchment. He stared in his bag for a few more moments. "Can I borrow a quill?" he asked sheepishly.

I rolled my eyes, and grabbed the quill off my desk and handed it to him. He wrote down the list of titles I rattled off, the dark green of the quill clashing with the red trim on his robes. I had the vague sense that I was forgetting something.

"The books will help you understand the basics of meditation and Occlumency. Try to put a little more effort into this than you do your usual school work, or we'll never get anywhere. Work on the exercises in the first book every night, and we'll test your progress later."

Whereas before the casual insult would have enraged the boy, now he merely rolled his eyes and nodded.

He moved to hand the quill back and then stopped, hesitating. "Er, can I borrow this? Only I guess I've lost my other one and Hermione won't let me borrow any more." How Potter managed to survive this long truly amazed me.

"Of course," I said, and I felt the beginnings of a headache.

"I can give it back tomorrow, after I get another from McGonagoll," he continued. My head was pounding now.

"Just keep it," I said, shaking my head slightly to clear the cobwebs. It didn't-

"Thanks, professor!" Harry said cheerily, and then peered closely at me. "Are you all right?" he asked, staring up at me in concern.

"I'm fine," I said faintly, leaning heavily back on the desk.

"You just looked a little peaky, sir." He was leaning in towards me, brows furrowed. In concern? Why was he always _looking_ at me?

"You're dismissed," I said quickly, and his eyes were staring up at me, sparkling green and eyes didn't _sparkle_ , that didn't make any sense-

"Okay," the boy said, still far too upbeat. Finally, _finally_ , he turned away from me and walked out of the room.

The first detention was over.

* * *

**Tuesday**

Potter had left with my favourite quill. I had _handed_ Potter my favourite quill. I had told Potter to _keep_ my favourite quill.

Not to mention the headache I'd gotten, and him staring up at me in some parody of concern. And now he was back, sitting at a desk in front of me, staring at me once more.

I was in the same position I'd been in yesterday, leaning against my desk. This time, I felt marginally less in-control of the whole situation. The tests I'd run on myself had turned up negative for any charms or potions infecting my system. Which unfortunately was _bad_ news, because after yesterday I was now convinced that there was something interfering in my thoughts, and I had no idea what it was.

I'd tested Potter's blood as well, and he'd also come up clean. That was expected, however, since what had given Potter his regenerative abilities was likely much more complex than a mere potion or charm.

"So… what are we doing today?" Potter asked, seemingly uncomfortable with the extended silence.

"Tomorrow I will begin testing your testing your Occlumency barriers. Repeated testing is the best way to improve them. Tonight, practice clearing your mind."

Potter looked dejected, but vaguely determined nonetheless. I was confident that he would at least try.

"Today we're going to be performing more tests of your healing abilities," I informed him. Potter seemed excited at the prospect. "This will likely be extremely unpleasant, and no doubt extremely painful as well," I continued. Potter seemed less excited now, but still sickeningly eager.

"Yes sir," he said. "How'll we start?"

Wordlessly, I conjured a bucket in front of him. He looked confused for a moment, glancing back and forth between me and the bucket, before I hit him with a small nauseau-inducing charm, and he threw up in the bucket.

"You're beginning to make a habit of that," I said, the cruel comment coming out more from instinct than anything else. Again, Potter barely reacted to it. Although that could have been because he was too busy dry-heaving into the bucket.

The nausea-inducing charm was actually a healing spell. It was mostly used on children who'd eaten something they shouldn't, and therefore while unpleasant, it wasn't especially damaging.

Potter's dry-heaves slowed to a stop.

"You've recovered more quickly than normal," I informed him. It had taken a little under a minute. "It seems your healing extends to spell-induced effects as well."

"Don't we need a basis for comparison?" Potter asked, his tone sharper than I'd heard it before.

"Potter, I've seen this charm used before many times."

"I think you should cast it on yourself," he said, expression peculiar.

"I- I suppose so," I said haltingly, and conjured myself a bucket. I stared down into it, and the bottom was polished enough that I saw my own reflection. I looked paler than usual, and vaguely confused. I didn't really want to cast the charm on myself, but at the same time, I knew how important a control was. I'd cut myself, after all. This wasn't that different. "Keep an eye on the time," I told him.

I cast the charm on myself, careful to cast it exactly as I had on Potter, and the nausea hit me instantly.

Throwing up was never pleasant. I could feel my abdominal muscles straining, the bile stinging my throat. Everything I'd eaten today came up in a sudden rush, obscuring my reflection in the bucket.

The dry-heaves lasted for ages, until they finally, thankfully, slowed to a stop.

"Are you all right, sir?" was the first thing Potter asked after I grew still. He sounded genuinely concerned.

"Yes," I croaked out, my throat painfully raw. My mouth tasted like poison. I vanished the buckets and summoned myself a glass of water, and Potter one as well. The water was beautifully refreshing.

"It lasted five minutes," Potter told me.

"Significantly longer than for you." The test had further confirmed my theories. The next step then would have to be the ritual, which would take me until Thursday to prepare.

"So what now?" Potter asked, before I could tell him.

"On Thursday, we will perform a ritual. I will begin preparing it today, while you continue your detention." A bucket of toads was sitting conspicuously in the corner, and Potter glanced over at it in dismay.

I raised my eyebrow at him.

"Yeah, okay," he said with a sigh, and reluctantly went to fetch the bucket.

I sat down at my desk, starting the arithmancy calculations I would need for the ritual. I'd already figured out the rune configurations required, but the arithmancy would tell me what other components I would need.

Potter and I worked quietly for a while, before he abruptly broke the silence.

"What does it mean that Umbridge is High Inquisitor?" he asked. "Can she sack people?"

I stopped writing, letting my (vastly inferior) second-favourite quill fall. I leaned back in my chair. "Yes," I told him shortly. "She will be sitting in on classes over the next few weeks for that express purpose." Unfortunately (but also unsurprisingly) she was starting with my class, on Thursday. And I had a feeling I knew which class it would be.

Potter looked pale, but not surprised. Doubtless he and Granger had already discussed this at length.

The silence stretched on, but neither of us resumed working. Potter was staring at his desk, seemingly lost in thought, and I watched him. Gods, he was so young. He was skinny and awkward, limbs seeming strangely sized for his torso. He had a smattering of spots across his face, that apparently even magic couldn't heal. His hair was wild, not arranged in any particular style, like James' had always been, but merely allowed to fall wherever it wished. Did he even own a comb?

"Why are you fighting with Mister Weasley?" I asked him, because I'd slowly been losing control of myself for the past week.

Potter's expression made me glad I'd asked, however. His eyebrows shot up and his faced turned red. "How did you know about that?" he asked dumbly, vaguely stricken.

"Molly Weasley told me," I said with hidden delight.

Potter stared at me like I'd grown a second head, mouth forming a little 'oh' of surprise. His slightly horrified befuddlement was perfection.

"Why- Whe- How-"

I waited patiently as Potter started and stopped a few more times, looking for the words to best convey his utter bafflement.

"Ask your questions, Potter." I was starting to feel more myself again, torturing Potter. It was like coming home after a long day, and discovering a fresh cup of tea already waiting.

"When were you talking to Mrs. Weasley and why were you talking about me?" he finally managed, the words coming out almost too quickly.

"We chat," I answered succinctly, and Potter looked even more alarmed, and completely unsatisfied with my answer. He opened his mouth, but I cut him off before he could say anything. "Perhaps I'd be more amenable to answering your questions if you answered mine first," I suggested idly, looking carefully away from Potter. It was the Slytherin way to never promise anything if you could help it.

"Wh-" Potter thankfully managed to pull himself together, and calmed down somewhat. "Ron's just- He's a prat, all right? Ever since the end of last year. He just gets angry _all_ the time, and he's always yelling at me over nothing." Once the words got started, it seemed, they didn't want to stop. "He called me a prat on the train because I wouldn't stop talking about- about Cedric- He said I was just looking for attention and that I didn't actually care-"

I noticed with alarm that Potter had tears in his eyes. Oh lord. I'd started this. I'd have to do something about it.

"He said I hadn't even _known_ Cedric, and that I should be happy because I'd _won_ and he said it was suspicious that I'd come back when Cedric was the older and more experienced one. He said that maybe I'd wanted to win enough to just _let Cedric die_ -" and now Potter's face was in his hands, and he was shaking slightly, making tiny hiccuping sobs.

I stood up and walked slowly across the room, sitting down on a desk across from the boy. I patted his shoulder awkwardly, and summoned him a clean handkerchief. Potter had blood on his hands from the toads, and I had no doubt his face would look quite gruesome when he was done crying.

Potter had been friends with Weasley for four years. I knew they'd fought occasionally, as teenagers were rarely as subtle as they thought they were, but Minerva had been right. They'd never fought like this before. Weasley's accusations were obviously unfounded, and, frankly, made no sense. Even I'd seen how distraught the boy was at the end of last year. To suggest that he'd had something to do with Diggory's death was the height of cruelty.

Molly had said they'd been friends during the summer.

"What happened over the summer?" I asked the boy, once his sobs slowed down and he wiped his eyes with the handkerchief.

I was right; there were smears of blood all over his face. It looked ghastly.

"He wrote me a few days after I got to the Dursleys', to say sorry. He said he was just freaking out about Voldemort and was taking it out on me unfairly." Potter hiccuped lightly, in a way that might have been a laugh. "He said Hermione had already gone off on him, telling him he was being stupid and that she'd helped him figure out what to say.

"We sent letters back and forth, and it was totally normal. But when I got to Grimmauld Place, he started being a prat again. Hermione said he was just antsy about being cooped up, but then he yelled at her, too." Potter's fist clenched around the handkerchief. "It's so stupid. He kept being a prat, and then we'd fight, and then he'd apologise, but it kept happening over and over and now we just mostly stay away from each other."

"And how is Miss Granger?" I asked, mind racing.

"Hermione's been great," the boy said with a sigh. "She helped me with my summer work-" That explained a lot. "-and she's been looking up interesting spells in the library for me. I think she's doing it to stop me thinking about Ron so much. She's really mad at him."

So. Something that affected me and Weasley, but not Miss Granger. Potter was the only thing Weasley and I had in common, but if Potter were the cause of our strange behaviour, then why not Miss Granger as well? And why now? Weasley had started acting strange after-

After the Dark Lord's resurrection. Had something been done to Potter, that night? A curse, perhaps? A very strange, very specific curse?

"Get back to work, Potter, and practice clearing your mind. It's more important now than ever."

Something in my tone must have resonated with him, because he didn't even protest.

The rest of the detention passed in silence.

* * *

**Wednesday**

I had a small potion brewing on my desk, the last component needed for the ritual I wanted to do. I'd stayed up late last night to finish the arithmancy calculations _and_ my grading, but at this point I hadn't gotten a good night's sleep for so long that one more night made no difference. I hadn't dreamt of the Dark Lord the past two nights. I hadn't dreamt of anything.

Potter was attempting to clear his mind. He stood across from me, meeting my eyes with what I supposed might be bravery.

" _Legilimens_ ," I whispered, and Potter's mind opened to me.

Muggles might have called it mind reading, but the mind was nothing like a book. If anything, it was more like different films all playing on top of each other, with each one in a different foreign language. Legilimancy acted as a translation charm of sorts, allowing someone with great mental fortitude and discipline to comprehend some of what was going on. Each mind was unique, with its own set of rules and challenges. Every person thought in different ways, and the cacophony of another person's thoughts could be debilitating to those who were untrained.

I had been trained by the best.

Potter had no defences on his mind, but that was hardly surprising given that he'd just started practicing two days ago. For a moment, I was tempted to rifle through his memories. When it came down to it, however, there were simply no memories of his that I wanted to see. I'd been tied up for days in curiosity over what Potter was thinking and feeling, and now that the answers were laid out in front of me, I didn't want to know.

I carefully severed the connection between our minds.

Potter was panting, his eyes wide. "Is it always like that?" he asked.

"No. Usually it's not as gentle." My words had the desired effect, and the boy grimaced.

"It was awful. It felt like you were _inside_ me-" he cut himself off.

"Reaching into someone's mind is a very intimate act, Potter," I told him, and the words felt like ash coming out of my mouth. "It is often used in acts of aggression, however, and as such can have devastating consequences."

After a moment's contemplation, Potter asked "Where did you learn it?"

"From my mother," I informed him curtly. It hadn't looked like magic, so my father hadn't cared. I hadn't learned much, since she couldn't perform Legilimancy without a wand, but I'd learned the basics. Later, the Dark Lord had taught me the rest. He hadn't been gentle, but seeing him tear into the minds of his victims had made me think that perhaps he'd been as gentle with me as he was capable of.

Potter seemed fascinated by my mention of my mother, so I hastened to divert his attention.

"If I hadn't told you anything of Occlumency, what would be your first instinct to protect your mind?" I asked.

"Er… Maybe attack you or something?"

"Physically?" I clarified, and the boy nodded. He looked embarrassed. "A common reaction, but often ineffective. Your mind can be attacked even from a distance."

"So what then? What am I supposed to do?" He was frustrated, his arms crossed over his chest tightly.

"There are multiple ways to handle an invader, but for you, the best way would be the mental equivalent of hiding. You have an invisibility cloak, do you not?" I noted with grim satisfaction that the boy blushed red.

"Er- well-"

"Pretend you're wearing your cloak, sneaking around the castle after curfew. You hear someone coming, and you slow to a stop. You quiet your breathing, so as to avoid being heard. Maybe you creep to the side of the corridor so you're not standing in the centre. And then suppose you see _me_ rounding the corner."

The boy was staring at me with wide eyes, and a slightly guilty expression on his face. I had no doubt he'd been in that exact situation before.

"How does it feel?" I asked.

"Er-"

"In that moment, how do you feel?" I repeated in frustration. I was _trying_ to communicate with him, _trying_ to teach him, and he was just standing there looking at me. "When you see me, when you're trying to hide, how does it _feel_?"

"Terrifying," Potter finally answered, his voice almost breathless.

"And what do you do?"

"I- I dunno, stand there? Hope that you don't see me?"

"Can you picture it? That feeling in your mind, that feeling of wanting to stay hidden?" Magic took willpower. Potter, who had never even learned silent casting, was at a supreme disadvantage in learning Occlumency. He simply hadn't built up the mental strength required to force your magic into doing what you wanted. However… Desperation was a rather powerful emotion, and one I had no doubt Potter was intimately familiar with.

"Uh-"

" _Legilimens,"_ I whispered, and once more found myself aware of Potter's mind. "Hide, Potter," I said softly, the words echoing my thoughts. I could feel the fear coming off him in waves. He was terrified, at least, which meant he'd been able to conjure up at least a few of the requisite emotions. I would need to encourage him somehow. What better way than with the threat of reliving his worst memories?

_Despair_ , I prompted, and his mind (so easily suggestible) started remembering.

And suddenly I was staring up at Petunia Evans, looking older and harsher than I remembered, and she was glaring down at me with clear hate in her eyes.

"Your parents were killed in a car crash," she said snidely, with no trace of compassion in her voice or face. "Your _father_ was driving drunk." She gave a haughty sniff. "He killed himself and your mother. He killed an innocent bystander as well." She disappeared.

A fat oaf of a boy was ripping pages out of a book. Cedric Diggory was smiling wryly down at me. A beefy, angry man with a red face was holding a stack of papers, shouting at me. I was sitting, alone in absolute darkness. _"Kill the spare_ ," a familiar voice said. I was running, racing down a paved street- That was enough.

Potter's face slowly came into view in front of me.

He was pale. "What was _that_?" he asked, sounding terrified.

" _That_ is what you're defending against," I informed him, my tone less harsh than I was expecting.

Potter didn't look reassured at my words.

"Again," I said, the boy's very memories reminding me each time why I was putting myself through this.

* * *

**Thursday**

Potter's detention was almost a welcome distraction from the stress of everything else happening in my life. I'd dreamt of the Dark Lord again — this time he'd been explaining to me the use of arithmancy in rituals. Some of it I'd already known, but some of it was new information. I'd gone to the library, and everything he'd told me had been absolutely correct.

It was possible that I'd read the information in passing, and my subconscious had stored it somewhere even though I couldn't access it. So that my dream was merely my subconscious brining to the forefront something I'd forgotten, brought on by my recent study. Very possible. Likely, even.

It could also have been… something else.

There was a knock at my door.

"Come in," I said, and Potter sidled into the room. He looked… puzzled, perhaps. Truthfully, I had no idea how to read him anymore. Ironic, given that after yesterday I was now more familiar with the intricacies of his mind than I'd ever been. Possibly more than anyone had ever been. It was an intrusive, one-sided intimacy that I was not comfortable with.

"Today we will be performing a ritual," I informed him, and he looked appropriately curious.

"What for?"

I almost didn't tell him, because frankly I didn't think he would understand my explanation anyway, but this wasn't the sort of ritual you sprung on someone unaware. "It will show magic," was the two knut explanation I settled on, since Potter likely had no idea of the difference between active and passive magic. "I will injure you under the effects of the ritual, and we shall observe what happens."

"And what if hurting me doesn't work?" The boy dropped his bag onto the desk he usually sat at in class.

"Then-" I hesitated, unsure of how best to say it, but thankfully Potter rudely interrupted and spared me.

"Are you going to try to kill me?" he asked, and of _course_ he was eager.

I desperately didn't want to. "If it comes to it," I replied stiffly. "I have another dose of the calming death brewed. I don't know if this method is preferable to you, but there are few options. It has to be something you can do yourself. "

"Why?" he asked, and I mentally cursed his curiosity, and my verbosity. Doubtless the boy wouldn't have questioned it if I'd just told him to drink the potion. I was more discomfited than I thought if I was making simple mistakes like that. What was wrong with me?

"I made a vow to Dumbledore to protect you," I lied. In reality, it had been more of a promise. A vow in the Muggle sense, not the wizard sense. I… I couldn't be the one to do it. I'd killed before, but not like this. Even if Potter wouldn't actually die (probably).

The boy looked even more curious now, and I resolved to simply ignore him as I got to work finishing the circle on the ground. The runes were copied from the parchment where I'd worked them out earlier, and I placed an owl feather in a silver bowl at the northern-most point of the circle.

"What's all this?" Potter asked, wandering over to better see what I was doing.

"Do you know what a ritual is?" I asked him, not looking up from where I was kneeling on the ground, carefully chalking runes.

"Uh… Like a thing you do a lot?" Well, at least he tried, even if his attempt _was_ vastly inadequate and frankly a little embarrassing for him.

"No. A ritual is magic that is performed without a wand, and combines arithmancy with the use of ancient runes. Often there are material components as well."

"That feather, you mean?" I had thought the mention of arithmancy would have instantly killed his curiosity, but the boy surprised me.

"Yes. Owl feathers represent sight and wisdom, and are used in divination rituals." I had been a professor for so long, I could teach even when distracted. I carefully sketched another rune just inside the outline of the circle.

"Divination?" the boy asked, clearly taken aback. "We haven't learned anything like this in class!"

Of course the boy was taking divination, which was regarded amongst the faculty as a complete waste of time and energy. The only students who took it were ones who wanted to avoid actual work. "Divination rituals are considered by the Ministry to be dark magic, and thus can not be taught." Which was extremely unfortunate, since the only divinations one could do properly without some form of the Sight were rituals.

"What? Why?"

"The Ministry fears that which they do not understand," I said, and finished the last rune with a flourish.

"But that doesn't make any sense!" protested Potter, as if I were the one enacting these inane laws.

"Potter, do you pay any attention in history of magic?" I asked with a roll of my eyes.

"Of cour- Well, er, mostly," the boy finished sheepishly, his righteous indignation quickly disappearing.

"And what does that class spend most of its time on?" Much to the dismay of anyone who wished to see a balanced and unbiased view of history.

"Uh. Goblins?" Potter clearly expected this to be a stupid answer, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise when I nodded brusquely. Those who designed the curriculum initially argued that focussing on goblin rebellions gave a way to frame the history of the Ministry, as well as providing an insight into the history of the magical race that wizards most often interacted with. In practice, the curriculum painted a negative picture of goblins as bloodthirsty and ruthless, and made the Ministry out to be an unrelenting advocate for peace. Students didn't start seeing a wider view of history until N.E.W.T.-level, which almost no one took. Most wizards who graduated Hogwarts developed a deep-seated fear and discomfort regarding goblins. I'd seen many articles in history journals debating the problem, but no one actually _did_ anything about it.

"Undoubtedly. The Ministry outlawed rituals as a response to the Goblin Rebellion of 1791."

"Why?" Potter asked, clearly baffled.

" _Think_ , Potter. Rituals are the most useful type of magic that can be performed without a wand. By banning rituals, the Ministry removed one of the most useful tools goblins had access to."

"But that's unfair!" Potter protested again, and I gave him my most unimpressed look.

"Surely at your age it no longer surprises you that the world we live in today was built on a foundation of oppression? That those in power will do anything to keep it, even if it involves grinding those they consider 'lesser' beneath their boot? And that they will do it with a smile and a spring in their step, because they know that there will be no real consequences for their actions?"

Potter's mouth was hanging open. "But you… you were a _death eater_ ," he said faintly, and I would have been angry if not for the fact that it was actually a fair point. The Dark Lord's reign of terror was covered at the end of the seventh-year history class, and apparently Binns did an atrocious job of it.

"The Dark Lord offered a lot of things to a lot of people," I told him wearily, and sat back heavily on my legs, chalk still in hand. "For a young man, not much older than you, the promise of being _something_ after only ever having been nothing at all was intoxicating. He promised to change the world. Only after it was too late did I realise just what he intended to change it _to_." That was… a rather nice version of the truth, I thought. Gloss over the worst of my behaviour, the most sinister of my motivations. Paint the younger me in a soft, tragic light. Potter wouldn't have understood the truth, as devoted as he was to the idea of doing the 'right thing'.

Not to mention… Part of me still wondered just what exactly the Dark Lord's intentions had been. It had always been obvious to me that he wasn't telling his followers everything. What had he intended, had he won? What would his first actions have been?

This newer, more twisted version of the Dark Lord was rather easier to read. He merely wanted to watch the world burn, while he stoked the fire. Destruction and absolute control seemed to be the watch words.

Potter had grown silent, lost in thought as I pushed myself to my feet and gathered the parchment with the incantation from my desk.

"Stand in the centre," I instructed him, and he hastened to follow my direction. I pulled a paring knife from my desk and sterilised it with a wave of my wand. "You'll likely want to remove your outer robes," I informed him, and after he followed suit I tossed him the knife.

Potter caught it gracefully, an annoying exhibition of his quidditch skills.

"You'll need to make a large cut," I told him, and he hesitated before carefully removing his shirt as well.

"I don't have very many," he said, blushing fiercely as I watched him disrobe with my eyebrow carefully raised. "I don't want to ruin it."

His lack of faith in the house-elves was unsurprising, I supposed, for someone who had been raised Muggle. Regardless, I didn't really care what he did.

"After I start speaking, cut yourself," I instructed, and after he nodded I started the slow chant. I repeated the same words over and over, and watched as Potter carefully pressed the knife into his arm and dragged it along.

Dark red droplets immediately welled up along the wound, small trails running down his arm. The ritual was working — I could see a vague pattern in the air that indicated that something magical was happening, but I couldn't determine what sort of magic it was, or even where it was coming from.

I kept the chant going for maybe a minute, while Potter stood there shirtless and covered in blood, shifting uncomfortably. His right hand was clenched tightly around the knife.

Finally, I let it end. The patterns hadn't become any more informative.

"Did you get anything?"

"No," I responded shortly. "We shall try the potion."

Potter looked strangely eager again. The boy was a mystery to me, his behaviour increasingly erratic. One moment he displayed all the signs of depression, the next he was perfectly fine. Many times in the past week or so I'd seen him display self-destructive tendencies, yet some of the time it was accompanied by angst and other times a strange sort of manic eagerness. I wasn't well-versed enough in psychology to understand what was going on here, but the boy clearly needed some kind of professional help, which undoubtedly he would never receive.

I tossed him the vial, and he carelessly threw the knife aside onto the floor where his robes were.

" _Episkey_ ," I muttered, healing his arm. The flash of healing magic was a calming blue, displayed in gentle spirals. Potter looked disgustingly enchanted at the sight. "Drink," I instructed, before he could say anything.

Potter grinned at me, as if we were two conspirators on some sort of absurd prank. The sight would have made me angry, if not for the fact that the next moment, Potter drank a vial of poison.

His eyes fluttered shut. His breathing calmed, his movements stilled. The magic of the potion was represented with a dark green light that spread throughout Potter's body, illuminating his veins. All magic that directly caused death was represented by a green colour. The killing curse being the most famous example, of course. One analysis I'd read related this to the colour of nature, and death being a natural phenomenon, but no one really understood why the colours were what they were. To even the most expert eye, it seemed fundamentally arbitrary.

And there it was. Almost hidden beneath the tendrils of green were glimmers of dark silver. The light moved in tight, oscillating coils, originating from the boy's centre. It looked absurd, and was certainly concerning. The tight coils suggested very powerful magic, but I had no idea what the oscillations represented. Conflict, possibly? Vibrations meant discord, but the coils weren't really vibrating.

Slowly, the dark green tendrils started shrinking back, replaced by the silver.

The dark shade of the silver meant that whatever magic was involved was dark (obviously). The silver colour was more perplexing, but perhaps indicated mental magic? The patronus was silver, after all. Perhaps Potter was somehow willing himself healthy again?

Although the mental fortitude required for that would be tremendous, and likely Potter would have displayed more skill at Occlumency.

I would have to do some research.

I watched as Potter swayed gently, eyelids twitching. His hands clenched and unclenched, and the vial fell to the floor. He was pale, appearing sickly in the flickering torchlight and the magical light surrounding him.

After a long, heart-stopping moment in which I wondered if I had gravely miscalculated (Albus would _kill_ me), the dark silver magic won, and the poison disappeared from his system completely.

The boy opened his eyes.

"How do you feel?" I asked him hoarsely, telling myself I was asking for the sake of the experiment.

"Fine," responded Potter, with a lazy smile. He seemed outrageously content. "I feel great, actually. Sort of… I dunno, lighter, maybe."

Well. That was concerning. Possibly he was still under the effect of the 'calming' portion of the potion, and he was feeling the lack of stress and tension in his body for the first time in likely a long time.

"What's going on between you and Umbridge?" asked Potter suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Excuse me?" I said frostily.

Potter grinned at me again. "In class today, she was practically all over you."

Ah yes… That. The waste of space had sat in on my Thursday afternoon class, to "observe" my teaching. She'd spent the whole time mooning over me, batting her eyelashes and managing to stand frighteningly close to me whenever I was away from my desk. "Dolores Umbridge is a fool," I told him shortly.

Potter was unsurprised by my response.

"Get dressed and get out. We'll discuss the results tomorrow." I had a long night ahead of me.

* * *

**Friday**

I'd had an idea. It was a bit embarrassing, so I didn't say it out loud.

Potter walked into his last detention looking tired, but still optimistic. I supposed he was looking forward to the first Hogsmeade visit tomorrow. I had protested letting Potter go, given the current dangers, but Albus had brushed me off, saying that children needed their fun.

_I_ certainly didn't think children needed any fun at all. Surely being alive and well was more important than having _fun_ , but of course Albus never listened to me.

I gestured at the pile of toads awaiting him, and the cheerful aura surrounding Potter disappeared. He dragged his feet over to the pile, where he made a show of reluctantly rolling up his sleeves and getting out his potions knife.

I ignored his antics, instead staring absently at the boy while I sat at my desk thinking furiously. Later, I would instruct him on Occlumency, but for the moment…

After Potter had become sufficiently engrossed in his task, I discreetly drew my wand and cast a spell on my eyes. Back in the 70s, this spell had been very popular among a certain type of teenage girl. Namely, the wealthy pureblooded ones. Narcissa had taught it to me when we'd been at Hogwarts. At the time, I had thought it frivolous and, frankly, idiotic, but Narcissa had insisted it was a good bit of fun. The spell, which relied on optical input, was useless as any sort of detection spell, not being able to see anything the eye couldn't see already. Not to mention, it became increasingly painful the longer the spell was held, and I had no doubt it could cause some sort of long-term damage if repeatedly used. But of course, teenagers weren't exactly known for their long-term thinking, and it remained in use. The spell was passed along orally, and didn't seem to actually be written down anywhere, since it was most assuredly dark magic.

The only benefit it had, in fact, was that it allowed a person to see _souls_.

And thus I could see Potter's, plain as day. I'd cast the spell this morning at breakfast, to re-acquaint myself with what a healthy, normal soul should look like. It had been beautiful, seeing the Great Hall lit up with magic, and had given me a very good idea of what to expect.

I cancelled the spell, and slowly rose to my feet.

"Potter, I believe I know the origin of your mysterious power, or at least another symptom."

"What is it?" asked the boy, looking up at me. His face looked perfectly normal. It was lively, expressive, everything you'd expect. His eyes were bright, his lips pink. He looked healthy and _alive_. I felt numb, shaken deep to my core.

"There's something wrong with your soul."


	8. Severus Learns to Respect His Elders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! I'll probably go back and revise everything at some point, maybe after I hit 100,000 words, or maybe after the whole thing is done. The tone has changed a bit, I think, and it might be nice to keep things consistent. I'll make sure to mention any revisions I do. 
> 
> Also: feel free to point out any inconsistencies or irregularities you spot! Now that this is getting longer, I can't keep rereading it, so I'm relying pretty much solely on my notes.

**Chapter 8 — Severus Learns to Respect His Elders**

A person's soul was a precious thing. Magic was thought to reside in the soul — those who were kissed by Dementors became squibs, for all intents and purposes. Supposedly, magical power correlated to the size of one's soul, but there didn't seem to be a clear consensus on what the size of a soul actually meant.

Soul magic was considered extremely dark, by the Ministry, and so most speculation was just that, and tended to err on the side of philosophy. Very rarely, I would come across a text that referenced some old book on soul magic, but the exact meaning behind the words was further obfuscated by every translation down the line.

The simple fact of the matter was that no one really understood the soul's purpose. Muggles had souls, because they could be kissed, but did animals? No one had ever seen a Dementor Kiss an animal, but was that because animals didn't have souls, or could there be another reason?

All human souls looked more or less the same. Minerva's looked no different than Albus', which looked no different than those of the Slytherin students. The students who'd had unfortunate home lives had souls that looked as healthy and fresh as those who'd never known any hardship. Colour and shape were always the same, the only difference was size.

So why was Potter's so disfigured? His soul was stretched and twisted around, and looked on the verge of  _snapping_  if that even made any sense. I had no idea what it could mean, other than that I had a lot of research ahead of me.

Research that I would need to conduct outside the Hogwarts' library, since I was now delving into some seriously dark magic. I would need to talk to Lucius, and see if he could get me into the libraries of any of his colleagues.

It was certainly not a task I was looking forward to.

Potter had been understandably confused, last night, as I'd briefly explained what a soul was. I'd left my explanation as vague as possible, in order to try to obscure the deficiencies in my own knowledge, although I'd admitted that I'd need to do much more research before I was able to come to any actual conclusions. The boy had been thoughtful, and vaguely unnerved the rest of the evening. Perhaps I should have saved my declaration for  _after_  Occlumency practice, because the boy had been far more distracted than usual. Eventually I'd given up and kicked him out, with the vague feeling that I was forgetting something. Although I had so many strange feelings these days, I was half ignoring them. (Later, I would come to regret this, but what could I really do?)

Today was the first Hogsmeade visit of the semester, which meant that now would be an excellent time to get out of the castle. No one would notice me slip out among the madness.

The first stop I made was to Lucius. I'd owled in advance that I was coming, so I was met with no resistance as I walked up the path to the overly ornate front door of Malfoy manor.

A house-elf led me to the same study as last time.

"Severus!" Lucius exclaimed when he saw me. "Have you come to gloat?" He gestured grandly at me with a glass, and some of the dark liquid sloshed over the side. The fucker was  _drunk._ What the hell was going on in Lucius' life that he spent his weekends blitzed?

"Gloat?" I parroted blankly.

"My peacocks!" Lucius wailed. Oh right. That. I can't believe I'd actually forgotten. If Lucius thought I was here to gloat-

Very carefully, I did not smile. I did not grin, or smirk, or burst out into the laughter I was feeling so potently inside. Instead, I frowned. "Oh, Lucius. I had no idea. My condolences."

Lucius sigh heavily, his eyes falling closed. "Of course. I'm sorry for accusing you, my dear friend. I've simply found myself— Well, I am devastated, naturally." He sank into the chair I had occupied during my last visit, and since the only other chair was behind the desk, I found myself taking Lucius' usual spot.

"What happened?" I asked carefully, marvelling at how much nicer the view was on this side of the desk. The chair was superbly comfortable, too. I poured myself a drink, although it was a small helping. Just a touch to help me get through the day.

"I didn't move the peacocks," Lucius admitted, to my sincere  _un_ surprise. "I simply couldn't  _bear_  it, Severus. Those poor creatures. This is the only life they know!"

I had once seen Lucius kill a Muggle with his own hands, taking a human life like it meant nothing. And he couldn't even move his fucking peacocks? How I utterly detested these people. I  _loathed_  them, with every fibre of my being.

"So what happened?" I prompted, when I saw Lucius was lost to his silent despair.

"Edmond and Edward!" Lucius cried. "My two favourites! Killed, at the hand of the Dark Lord himself!" He finished his glass and poured himself another, hands shaking.

"Really now?" I asked, leaning forward slightly. I tried to look sympathetic, but Lucius wasn't paying attention anyway.

"It was horrible, a terrifying sight to behold! I begged the Dark Lord for mercy,  _begged_ , yet he in his fearsome splendour of course refused."

This was getting ridiculous. I could only stand Lucius' drunk idiocy for so long, and we were fast approaching my limit.

"How did they die?" I asked, not even bothering to be polite.

"He tortured them, the Cruciatus. And then he used the killing curse. At least their final deaths were quick, although they suffered much beforehand."

That didn't sound very comforting at all, but to each their own. I was disappointed, actually. I still had this fantasy of them burning to a crisp.

"You'll be moving them, then?" I asked Lucius, wondering just how stupid he was.

Alas, not stupid enough. "Yes, I suppose I must," he muttered. "The things we do for the cause, Severus, the things we do."

This moment made me absurdly glad I was a spy, if only because it meant I didn't share the same cause as Lucius. What a travesty of a human being. He represented, in one overdressed package, everything that was wrong with our world. The corruption, the hypocrisy, the casual disregard for the well-being of others — truly Lucius was a fine specimen indeed.

And here I was, asking a favour of him. What did that make me, exactly? "Lucius, the reason I'm here…" There we go, now he was looking at me again, returned from whatever far-off place he drifted. "I believe I may have an idea of what the Dark Lord could be looking for in the Ministry, but I'll need to do some research first. I need access to books that aren't allowed in the Hogwarts library."

Lucius nodded absently. "Of course, of course. Whatever you need."

"I will likely need access to more than just your library," I added, watching his reaction. Good. He seemed largely disinterested.

"I'll send a few owls," Lucius said, with a wave of his hand. "Would you like to see the library now?"

I hesitated. "When is the Dark Lord expected to return?"

"Not for a few hours."

Shite. I was hoping for a few days, not a few hours. Still, it would give me a chance to get started, at least. I sincerely doubted there would be anything here anyway. The Malfoy library was mostly for show.

Lucius had his house-elf show me to the library (and honestly, I'd been coming here for twenty years now, I knew my way around), and I gave it the cursory search. He did have a few interesting tomes, but nothing that even touched on soul magic. It was easy to discern which were the dark arts books, since those were a little more feisty, and there were few among them I didn't recognise.

My search over, I let the elf lead me back to Lucius' study, where he informed me that Avery would be expecting me. A wise choice, since Avery had many spell-crafters in his family tree, and Avery was willing to be discrete regarding Lucius' troubles.

I made my farewells, and left the study, trailing reluctantly behind the elf, who, while surprisingly quick for someone so short, still walked infuriatingly slowly.

The Dark Lord walked around the corner, and slowed to a halt. His face was serpentine and waxy, a far cry from the charismatic young man I was seeing in my dreams. His dark robes fluttered around stiff black boots, and my mind drifted unrepentant to the cozy grey socks I'd dreamt the younger Dark Lord wore.

"Ah, Sssseverus," the Dark Lord said, his thin lips moving in a grotesque parody of a smile. He was in a good mood then. Excellent.

"My lord," I murmured, sweeping into a low bow.

"What bringsss you here, Sssseverus?" Was the hissing purposeful? Or could the Dark Lord not control it? Where had his humanity gone, and what had taken it?

"Merely offering Lucius my…  _condolences_ , my lord, on his loss."

The Dark Lord twirled his wand in his long, bony fingers. He looked thoughtful. "Ah yes, the peacocks… What would you do, Severus, in my position?" Well, that answered my question. His voice now was the voice of my dreams, elegant and well-spoken. The voice that discussed magical theory for hours and teased me congenially.

"If I were in your position…" I pretended to think for a moment, my index finger tapping my chin in a over-exaggerated parody of thought. "If I were in your position, I would have the elves serve them for dinner," I finished, with a flourish. The house-elf accompanying me looked terrified.

"I knew there was a reason you were my favourite," the Dark Lord said with a hideous smirk. Did he hate the peacocks for the same reason I did? Or was he merely trying to punish Lucius?

"My lord," I acknowledged, with another bow and a small smile.

"Very well, Ssseverus. Continue on your way. Go back to that meddlesome old fool you call a headmaster, and those putrid, squalling things he calls children. I believe we shall sssee each other again, sssoon enough."

Well. I had to admit his description of Hogwarts was fairly accurate, although his promise to meet again soon was a little worrying. I wouldn't have any news for him, likely, and he would not be pleased.

"Yes, my lord," I acknowledged, and he swept past me. I had no doubt he would enjoy Lucius in his current state.

Indeed, just as I reached the front door, I heard loud screams coming from the corridor leading to the study where Lucius was. I glanced over at the elf, who looked resigned and rather unsurprised. Maybe Lucius had been right, last week, and I  _was_  lucky.

Or maybe Lucius was an utter waste of space, and the Dark Lord realised that.

I left the manor without a backwards glance.

* * *

The trip to Avery's was hugely successful. Spending the rest of the day in the library yielded not only two tomes on soul magic, but also the personal diary of Balarin Bane, who had apparently married into the Avery family. The books were old enough that they hadn't been enchanted with copyright charms, and I was able to make a copy of each, which I then shrunk and hid in my robes.

I stopped to say farewell to Avery on my way out. He was in the parlour, reading a book quietly. His soft brown hair fell gently around a slightly chubby face, and he looked nothing like the murderer and torturer he was.

"Did you find it?" he asked curiously, upon seeing my empty hands.

I gave a short nod. "I believe so," I said. "Although there is additional research I must do before I feel confident enough to report back to Lucius."

Avery let out a long sigh at the name. "That man is foolish," he said, shaking his head slightly. "His selfishness would see us all killed." Avery had also claimed the Imperius curse to get out of Azakaban, and was suffering for it as well. His reasons for helping Lucius were no doubt quite vindictive. If Lucius got caught asking for help (which was likely), the punishment he would face would take some of the heat off of Avery. Avery and I wouldn't be punished for helping, since it didn't contradict any orders we'd been given. Lucius was the only one misbehaving.

"Perhaps."

Avery rolled his eyes. "You've always been so reticent, Severus. You know I'm right. The idiot thinks sneaking around behind the Dark Lord's back is somehow going to get him back into the inner circle — when all he  _needs_  to do is stop acting like a buffoon."

This was so much like what I'd been thinking earlier that I couldn't help but smile. Avery and I had been friends in school, and while he was without question a despicable human being, he also had a wicked sense of humour and a quick tongue. I found I quite liked him, actually. And what did that say about me?

"Go on, then," Avery continued. "What's he giving you to help him?"

"Can't I just do a favour for an old friend?"

Avery snorted. "The day you do a free favour for Lucius Malfoy is the day Bella sucks your cock while dressed like a Muggle housewife." And how quickly our conversations devolved into the vagaries of youth. Seeing Avery always made me feel like a teenager again, full of anger at everything and completely impotent to actually do anything about it.

"Thank you, you raging prick, that was just the mental image I wanted right now." Still, I'd missed the easy banter we'd always engaged in. Why didn't I visit more often?

"Why, planning on having a wank?"

"You would know, wouldn't you? You were awfully specific there. Think about me and Bella a lot, do you?"

Avery smirked at me. "It's all that gets me  _up_  in the morning, sometimes. The knowledge that some day, she'll be out of Azkaban and I'll get to watch her beat you up again."

Bellatrix and I had not gotten on well in school. By any stretch of the imagination.

"The only reason she didn't beat you up too was because you were too busy hiding," I replied indignantly, although I couldn't quite suppress the smile from my face.

"Ah Sevvy, didn't you know? That's the Slytherin way."

"I suppose I must have missed that during our lessons on being the perfect Slytherin."

"Still, I'd take Bella over that mud-slut you used to pant over any day."

Ah, and there it was. The reason I spent as little time with Avery as possible, despite our long history as friends, and my cue to leave.

Only twenty minutes later I was walking back up to the castle in the dim light of the setting sun. A few straggling students in front of me were walking up as well, loudly discussing their day at the village. Unfortunately, I'd trained myself to always eavesdrop on conversations when possible, and such was having difficulty tuning out their inanity.

"Who's the candy for, Ernie?" Hannah Abbott said with an overdone giggle. Was that her idea of being flirtatious? Perhaps she could use some lessons from Dolores Umbridge.

"No one!" Macmillan insisted, his tone far too confrontational for it to be true.

"Is it for Megan?" Susan Bones asked with delight. "She loves Bertie Botts!"

"It's not for Megan!" Macmillan insisted.

"Oh, is it for  _Mandy_  then?" Abbott giggled.

"No!" Macmillan practically shouted.

"Oooh, Hannah, maybe it's for a  _boy_ ," the Bones girl said in a hushed tone.

"It's not for a boy!" Macmillan was actually yelling at this point, although we were far enough from the castle that no one cared, and I didn't particularly want to draw attention to myself by punishing him (as much as I wanted to).

"Maybe it's for  _Harry Potter_!" Abbott said with glee. Well, that was actually almost interesting.

"Mmm, I should have gotten candy for Harry," Bones said dreamily. "He seemed so dashing today!" Oh gods, what had Potter done now.

"It's not for Harry Potter!" Macmillan protested, although he wasn't yelling anymore. Perhaps he realised that the girls were no longer paying attention to him.

"Can you believe he really did all those things? I thought they were just rumours!" Bones continued, completely ignoring Macmillan. Even in the poor lighting, I could see Abbott nodding furiously.

"And he was so humble too!"  _Humble._  Fascinating.

"I'm still not sure about all this," Macmillan grumbled.

"Ernie!" Abbot gasped, sounding horrified. "How can you not be sure?"

"What if we get caught?" His concerns were valid, considering the security of whatever they were talking about was so poor that I'd found out about it the very same day.

"We won't get caught!" Bones insisted. "And anyway, we all signed Hermione's contract."

"Yeah!" Abbott agreed. "No one's going to dare break it, so we're totally safe! No one will tell tales on us!"

So. Miss Granger had finally figured out contracts. The Wizarding World was doomed. Although it seemed like she'd made a mistake in her writing, if being accidentally overheard was accounted for. Contracts could be tricky that way. Often the most dangerous magical contracts were the simplest, since the exact meaning of the words was determined by the intent of the person who enchanted the contract.

"Ugh, she's a scary one," Macmillan said. "That's the real reason I signed, actually, even if it does put me at risk of my toes rotting off."

Dear Merlin. I'd always suspected Granger had a vindictive streak, especially after her third year when she punched Draco in the face. That had been one of the few times I'd used Legilimancy on the boy, in fact. The memory I'd stolen was one of my most treasured.

Still. Threatening to rot her classmates' toes off was rather a large step up. Perhaps I should be keeping a closer eye on the girl. Magical contracts were quite useful, although as enchanted objects, they were  _supposed_  to be heavily regulated by the Ministry. Apparently Granger didn't care about little trifles such as legality.

The purpose behind a contract was simple: a person agreed to do something outlined by the contract, and if said person didn't, they would be subject to some punishment described by said contract. The magic behind enforcing said punishment came from the enchanter of the contract. Therefore, most punishments were kept simple. If the enchanter hadn't put enough magic into the contract to enforce the punishment, then the contract simply wouldn't be effective, and it was difficult to tell whether or not enough magic had been put in until  _after_  the contract had been broken.

The idiots in front of me didn't seem about to reveal what exactly it was that Potter and Granger had orchestrated (which also could have accounted for why their toes didn't rot off), so I returned to my quarters to peruse my prizes.

My quarters were well furnished, if small, and felt cozy despite being in the heart of the dungeons. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and I had an entire wall devoted solely to academic journals.

"Mipsy," I called, and she popped into existence in front of me.

"Yes, Master Snape sir?" the house-elf said in her usual overly polite, squeaky tone.

"Bring me a cup of tea, please," I said, and she disappeared. A cup, prepared exactly the way I liked it, appeared on my coffee table.

I cracked open the diary with an eager anticipation. It didn't have any wards on it that I could detect, but the whole thing was written in gibberish. Some sort of code, probably, which would require months of research and painstaking work, none of which I felt like starting at the moment. Alas. I set the diary aside.

The books on soul magic proved to be much more interesting, although I still had no idea what was wrong with Potter. I'd double checked when I'd been at Avery's, and the silver I'd seen in the ritual did indeed represent mental magic, not soul magic. From what I could tell, no one had ever seen soul magic visually represented before.

Still, Potter's mutilated soul was likely connected. It seemed improbable that the boy would have two completely unique and totally unrelated problems. The books confirmed that the soul was where one's personality was housed, which meant the soul could have an effect on the mind, but the removal of a soul wouldn't affect one's physical health. So the soul couldn't affect the body, but the mind could, and since the soul could influence the mind, that meant that the soul  _could_  actually influence the body but only in a convoluted, circuitous way…

I also needed to research mental protection spells, actually. Something was twisting Potter's soul, and influencing his mind in order to subconsciously cause him to protect himself. But where was the power coming from? And what were the limits? And most importantly,  _what_  was behind it all?

If anything, the books only raised more questions. However, they gave me a hundred new ideas for places to look for answers, which was useful in its own way.

It was only a matter of time before I uncovered the truth.

* * *

The following morning at breakfast, I discovered something which rather derailed my plan to spend the whole day in the library.

"The board of governors?" I asked with trepidation. "Good lord, why?"

Albus was sitting next to me, a grave look on his face. "There is only so much she can do without their approval, even now." Umbridge had called a meeting of the board of governors, set for that afternoon. Albus had informed me as soon as I'd sat down, completely ruining my chance at a nice breakfast. Minerva was on the other side of him, in her customary seat, and the nightmare in question was nowhere to be seen.

"Do you know what she's planning?" Better to be informed in advance, was it not?

Albus hesitated, looking torn.

"Albus, what is it?" I asked, unnerved by his behaviour. "Tell me."

"She… No, Severus, I can't. It would be remiss of me to not let you enjoy your ignorance while it lasts." Next to him, Minerva was looking very grave indeed.

"I assure you, I would much rather know." Especially now that he'd said that, damn him.

"Well…" Albus hesitated again, glancing over at Minerva, who gave him a tight nod, and then looked away. "Dolores has decided, in her infinite wisdom, that it's safer for the students if only married professors are allowed to teach here."

" _Married_  professors? What does that matter?" I asked indignantly.

"To prevent any, ahem,  _untoward_  behaviour between faculty and student," Albus was blushing, slightly, underneath his outrageous facial hair.

"I have never-" My words came out much louder than I'd intended, and some of the students at the Hufflepuff table in front of me looked up in curiosity. "I have  _never_  engaged in any inappropriate behaviour with the students, and what's more, being married certainly wouldn't stop a professor who was-"

Albus was shaking his head slightly. "Of course, Severus," he said soothingly. "Don't worry, no one wants to see you go. We simply have to find you a wife."

Somehow, that didn't offer me any comfort at all. "Find me a wife?!" I repeated, my voice coming out in a very slightly higher pitch than I'd intended.

"Yes, we simply must. I believe Dolores has volunteered?" Albus glanced over at Minerva again, and I suddenly noticed her lips twitching, although she was doing her best to hide it. Ah.

"Why, Minerva," I said sweetly, my demeanour instantly changing. "I seem to remember that  _you_  are unmarried as well."

"Severus, are you proposing to me?" she asked in faux horror, and Albus had buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

"Minerva McGonagall, would you do me the honour-" I started, and Albus lost it completely.

His laughter attracted the attention of the students sitting near us, but when they saw me staring at them they quickly turned away again. Minerva buried her head in her arms, laughing so hard I could hear her hiccupping.

I waited patiently for Albus to calm down again, before I asked "What is the meeting  _actually_  about, you decrepit old fool?"

"Ah Severus, always so charming," he replied with a smile. "I believe she's planning on banning all student organisations without her written approval."

I rolled my eyes. "This doesn't by chance have anything to do with Potter, does it?"

Albus had a twinkle in his eye. "How funny you should say that," he answered cryptically, and that was all I could get out of him on the matter.

Since my Slytherins were as well-behaved and uninteresting as ever (at least, as they ever were on a Sunday morning when most of them were still in bed), my gaze slipped over to the Gryffindor table.

Miss Granger was sitting there alone, book in hand as she absently chewed on a piece of toast. She was reading an arithmancy text, if I remembered the cover correctly, and quite an advanced one, too. I'd looked at it the other day when verifying what the dream Dark Lord had told me. Why was she in Gryffindor? Why not Ravenclaw, or even Slytherin? She clearly had ambition in droves. What was it about her that had made Gryffindor the right choice, four years ago?

_I_ didn't even know a curse that would rot someone's toes off. Fingers, yes, but not toes. She must have been reading some extremely esoteric books, or perhaps she'd modified a different curse for her specific needs. That was an awful lot of trouble to go through for something like this, especially when there were so many other options easily accessible. What did Granger have against toes, specifically?

I spent almost the entire morning lost in contemplation of the curious nature of the teenage girl's mind, and the board meeting approached all too rapidly.

Professors were not required at these meeting, but heads of houses were, so Filius, Pomona, Minerva, and I dutifully showed up outside the staff room at one thirty sharp.

Umbridge was already there, and she squashed herself into the seat usually reserved for Albus, who had been relegated to the seat usually held by Filius. I didn't care, as long as she was sitting as far away from me as possible. I gave her a smile when I saw her, because my life hadn't been my own for almost twenty years.

It was almost a shame Lucius had gotten himself thrown out two years ago; he might have made this meeting actually worth watching.

As it was, the board of governors was made up of twelve of the most pompous, idiotic, pretentious  _shits_  that existed in the upper crust of the Wizarding World, and didn't that really say something.

"Marjorie, dear," one of them said, "how  _are_  your hippogriffs doing?" which was almost as bad as peacocks, although not quite. At least you could ride hippogriffs, although I had no idea why anyone would ever want to.

Minerva kept me entertained, at least, nudging me in the side whenever any of them said anything especially stupid. She would give me sidelong looks which said more than words ever could, and then I would roll my eyes slightly back. It was a subtle friendship that we enjoyed.

Albus had been correct in that Umbridge was looking to ban student groups, by requiring students to seek her written approval before meetings would be allowed to take place. This wasn't entirely unprecedented, since student groups already needed faculty approval, but the wording of her decree was extreme. Disbanding every group automatically and requiring them to go through the approval process before meeting would create a huge workload for her, on top of her regular teaching duties. (Not that she seemed to actually prepare her classes at all, so perhaps that wasn't a problem for her.)

Additionally, the definition of a student organisation was far too strict, covering any group of three or more students who met regularly. It meant that any study group required approval, or even a group of friends who regularly spent time together. And to threaten expulsion for violating those rules was bizarre.

It was obvious that this had been triggered by whatever Potter and Granger had gotten up to in Hogsmeade yesterday, but the bit about expulsion seemed far too extreme a punishment, especially given that I'd just seen Umbridge let Potter off on underage drinking not even two weeks ago. Was she trying to get him expelled? In which case, why not two weeks ago? Or was she merely using it as an extra deterrent? She must know that parents would never stand for it, if the punishment were to actually be used.

The board clearly didn't care what Umbridge did, as long as they all got a chance to express their  _expert_  opinions. None of the actual professors spoke the entire meeting, and no one on the board seemed to care at all.

Afterwards, we (the heads) all dispersed in different directions (I'd hastily left the room while Umbridge was distracted talking to an especially large man with a ridiculous moustache), and coincidentally all happened to be passing Albus' office not even a minute later, whereupon he graciously — since we were in the area already — invited us up for a drink.

"So, what exactly did Potter do?" I asked Albus eagerly, as soon as we were comfortably sat with a cup of tea each

Minerva rolled her eyes at me. "Honestly, Severus, why do you insist on blaming Potter for everything?"

I glanced over at Minerva, baffled. "You do realise this is literally Potter's fault?" I said blankly.

She gave a haughty sniff. "If anything, it's Dolores Umbridge's fault. You of all people should know that."

I glanced over at Albus in silent appeal.

"While Dolores is indeed reacting to Harry's actions, we can hardly blame the boy for the actions of the Ministry," he said.

"Well,  _I_  can," I muttered sulkily, and Pomona snorted.

"You'd blame the boy for a thunderstorm," she pointed out cheerfully.

"Didn't you once blame the boy after you stubbed your toe?" Filius, who had just revealed himself as a back-stabbing traitor, chimed in.

"I believe that was right after he blamed Potter for the fall of the Roman Empire," Minerva added dryly.

"Albus," I said, completely ignoring the buffoons masquerading as my colleagues. "After the curse takes care of Umbridge, I believe I would like to be the next Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."

"The previous professor was locked in a trunk for nine months, and his imposter was given the Kiss," Albus pointed out, giving me a skeptical look that only barely covered his smile.

"A far better fate than listening to these three," I said stoically.

Minerva rolled her eyes at me in an exaggerated motion, which undoubtedly still failed to convey the depths of her non-amusement. "You should learn some respect, young man," she said in her snootiest voice.

"But seriously, Albus," said Filius, with a glint in his eye. "What  _did_  Potter do?"

Albus sighed heavily. "Harry has taken it upon himself to teach Defence to his classmates in lieu of an adequate instructor."

There was a moment of silence from the four of us as we contemplated what this would mean, exactly.

"That's very dangerous," Pomona said slowly. "Students absolutely shouldn't be practicing this sort of magic unsupervised."

"I shall have the house-elves keep an eye on them," Albus said mildly.

"Perhaps we could encourage an older student to join," Filius suggested.

The meeting continued like this, trading suggestions back and forth and discussing what we would do in Potter's place, for about half an hour. After that, the meeting dispersed, and as we were leaving, Albus held me back.

"There is something else I wanted to speak to you about," he said, most unnecessarily. "Yes?" I prompted, when I saw he was waiting for me to say something.

"Has Harry mentioned anything to you about his study group?" Albus looked troubled, almost. There was a soft furrow to his brow, a slight tension in his face. I sat back down in my chair in front of his desk.

"No…" I answered slowly. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason," he said absently. "Have you noticed any strange behaviour from him?"

Oh gods, yes. "No stranger than usual," I lied. What on earth had gotten Albus so worked up? Potter leading an illicit Defence group seemed perfectly in line with his character, and it meant that the boy was engaging with both his peers and his education.

"Do keep an eye out for me, won't you?" Albus asked, with a sigh.

"Of course," I murmured, yet another lie.

The grateful look Albus gave me almost made me feel bad for my deceptions.

Almost.

* * *

On Monday, I had the fifth-year Gryffindor/Slytherin class. They were brewing a modified version of the Strengthening Solution they'd brewed on Thursday, when Umbridge had so kindly graced us with a visit.

There was something about seeing the students filing into my classroom that inspired such disgust in me. I hated the way they rudely chatted amongst themselves, the way they complained about every little assignment as if it were the most onerous task they'd ever been asked to do. I hated the way they were constantly looking for shortcuts and cheats to get out of doing even the smallest amount of work. And above all, I hated the way none of them actually  _cared_  about learning.

With a few, somehow even  _more_  irritating exceptions.

Granger and Potter sat in what had become their usual seats this semester, away from Weasley. Not that they could get very far, in a classroom this size, but it was obvious when one paid attention that they weren't speaking.

Things immediately went to shit.

" _Mis_ ter Longbottom," I said darkly, my robes swirling dramatically around me as I swooped down on the quivering boy. "Have you finally decided that your pathetic life is no longer worth living?"

Longbottom was too terrified to speak, just staring up at me with growing horror.

"No? Then why, you idiot boy, do you have fluxweed next to your cauldron?"

"I- I- I-"  _I_  knew from past experience that this was the best I could expect from him.

"Do you realise what would have happened if you'd put fluxweed in your potion instead of the nightshade this recipe calls for?"

Longbottom was silent, mouth gaping open.

"Anyone?" I said scathingly, turning my attention to the rest of the class, who were staring at us with mute terror. "Can anyone tell me what would have happened?"

There was a long silence, and I'd finally resigned myself to calling on Granger (who I had no doubt knew the answer, but she was looking at Longbottom with pity, and was likely trying to spare the boy's  _feelings_ ) when a voice suddenly said:

"The fluxweed would react with the dragon's breath and cause a magical overload, which would overheat the potion, causing the effects of the powdered moonstone to set in too quickly. This would mean that the cat's whisper wouldn't have time to neutralise the properties of the aconite, and the entire potion would become poison. Moreover, because the whole thing would be superheated, the poison would vaporise, enter Neville's lungs, and kill him instantly."

As soon as he'd started talking, the entire class and I had turned towards Potter, and as he'd continued talking I could see the shock I was feeling mirrored on the faces of all the students around me. I'd been alive 35 years, and this was by far the most astonishing thing I'd ever seen, and I'd seen Potter survive drinking poison, twice.

Granger was staring at Potter with an especially strange expression on her face. She looked less surprised, and more… calculating, perhaps. Longbottom had gone completely pale, his pallor a stark contract to Weasley's suddenly ruddy cheeks.

Potter stared up at me expectantly, a small smirk on his lips.

"Yes, Mister Potter," I said carefully. "You are entirely correct."

There was another moment of stunned silence, an expectant one, and I knew the entire class was holding their breath, waiting for me to continue. I knew I had to say something, but I was at an utter loss for words.  _Think_ , Severus, you fucking idiot. You're being judged on what you do next.

"Now, Potter, why don't you put that knowledge you seem to have miraculously acquired to good use and work with Mister Longbottom here on his potion? Since he seems to  _desperately_  need it. Mister Weasley can work with Miss Granger."

They were brewing individual potions today, but since the desks were all built for pairs, they were working somewhat together. Potter obediently shuffled his bags around, replacing a sullen-looking Weasley, who still only looked half as annoyed as Granger did.

Perfect. Everyone was upset, and my half-wits on the other side of the aisle would have nothing to write home about.

My gaze drifted back towards Longbottom, whose hands were still shaking. Honestly. The way Pomona spoke about him, Longbottom was supposed to be a prodigy at Herbology. And he couldn't even tell the difference between fluxweed and nightshade? I watched with a critical eye as he slunk back to the store cupboard and came back with a small handful of nightshade. The buffoon hadn't cleared the fluxweed off his desk, and I was about to yell at him when Potter casually swept it off and back into Longbottom's potions kit.

Every day, Potter seemed to further add to the mystery surrounding him. I watched him out of the corner of my eye the entire lesson, and Potter performed beautifully. His hands were careful, cutting the ingredients precisely and accurately; he'd arranged everything in order, organising his worktop to prevent any mistakes; and his timing was absolutely, amazingly perfect.

He'd also gone off recipe. It was a common substitution, one that resulted in a slightly stronger potion at the cost of slightly more expensive ingredients. It was also one that wasn't discussed in the text until sixth year, since the theory behind the substitution was above O.W.L.-level.

I wasn't the only one watching him. Miss Granger was staring at him every chance she got, although her potion was turning out perfectly regardless. Weasley was ignoring her, which was unfortunate for him, because perhaps if he'd been paying attention his potion wouldn't have turned out completely useless.

Draco, meanwhile, was working quietly with Parkinson. They were giving each other significant glances, loaded with something I couldn't quite decipher. At the table behind them, Nott was working with Zabini, sending furtive looks at the back of Draco's skull.

It was highly likely that any pureblood would have had at least enough Occlumency training to be able to detect when someone was in their head. Even if I did decide that I was through playing and resorted to cheating instead, it would be too risky.

Maybe it was time to take a more active role in their lives. All I needed was for Draco to get a detention, and then I could revoke his prefect status and give it to Zabini instead, setting my brilliant plan into motion. I, obviously, couldn't be the one to give him detention; it would have to be another member of the faculty. Umbridge would be ideal, because then I could further ingratiate myself with her at the same time. The difficulty, of course, would come in first convincing Umbridge that she need not fear Lucius' wrath, and then get Draco caught misbehaving. An obvious solution would be to set him up to fight with Potter, but then it was possible Umbridge would be too caught up with Potter to care about Draco at all.

Perhaps— could I get them somehow  _conspiring_  together? Or at least make it look like they were?

Potter would get detention as well, but the boy didn't have to know I was involved. Honestly, those two were both incredibly volatile. All I needed to do was get them in the same place, and they would make their own trouble. Getting them to even look momentarily like they were conspiring would be orders of magnitude more difficult.

It was a challenge I was more than willing to accept, however.

It was nearing the end of the period; I slowed to a stop in front of Potter's cauldron. His potion was  _perfect_.

"Mister Potter," I said, staring down at his brew. "I see you didn't use the standard recipe. Is the text not good enough for you?" My words were quieter than they usually were when I was standing in front of Potter's cauldron mocking him, but it was difficult to get a proper anger on when I was too busy being bewildered by his sudden talent.

"That's correct, professor," he said, although his voice was devoid of any cheek. "I realise that dragon dill can occasionally be difficult to come by, but the whole point of a  _Strengthening_  Solution is that it strengthens things. A Strengthening Solution made with weaker ingredients is an utter waste of time."

"Not all things need to be as strong as possible," I riposted, annoyed that I was having this discussion with Potter and amazed that I was having this discussion with  _Potter_.

"Maybe, but in that case you can use less of it. You can't use more of a weaker potion to get stronger results. Making a stronger potion in the first place will always give you more options." Potter spoke with astonishing passion, and it was obvious that all of his classmates were surprised as well. I felt distinctly uncomfortable with whatever was happening, and yet at the same time I felt powerless to stop it.

"The addition of dragon dill also makes the potion more challenging to brew. Because it reacts so quickly, the brewer must be much quicker to incorporate the rest of the ingredients. A potion that's brewed incorrectly is always worthless."

Potter pursed his lips. "So you think textbooks should cater to incompetence."

"Certainly not, Mister Potter. However, it is important to be realistic about what expectations can be imposed on students." Some of the Gryffindors were looking at me like nifflers were flying out of my ears, Weasley especially. I had no doubt that if I ever  _truly_  went hard on them, they would keel over and die.

Potter scoffed at my answer, so I elaborated.

"The substitution you have made is described in the sixth year text, along with the pros and cons of its use." Potter didn't look surprised by that, but merely rolled his eyes instead of responding. I grabbed his ladle and scooped up some of his potion, before pouring it back into the cauldron. "Full marks," I added, and Potter stared at me, a hint of a smirk on his face.

The rest of the students certainly did not fare so well.

After I dismissed them, I sat heavily at my desk, staring down at my papers. I had fifteen minutes before the next period, which would be enough time to grade at least a few homeworks. The students all but ran out of the classroom, and a moment later it was quiet.

Except for the sound of a single pair of footsteps, walking up to my desk.

I looked up to find Potter standing in front of me, still wearing his slight smirk. It was an expression I had never seen on his face before, I dimly realised.

"What do you want, Potter?" I asked wearily. I could feel the beginnings of a tension headache.

"Sir, I wanted to express my appreciation for you teaching me Occlumency," he said earnestly.

"You're welcome," I responded stiffly.

"It's just… I'm worried, sir." He certainly  _looked_  worried, biting his lip nervously, hands holding tight to the strap of his school bag.

"Worried?" I asked. My head was  _pounding_.

"Well, you have direct access to my mind, and you know all my secrets — I'm just worried about my security."

"You have my word, Potter, that I will not repeat anything I see inside your head."

"I need more than that, sir. I need you to make a vow." Potter still looked nervous, but there was a light in his eyes-

"What sort of vow?" I asked. A vow. When did—

"Nothing too crazy, sir. It's actually a contract," Potter said reassuringly. "Just saying that you'll keep all my secrets."

"And the stakes?" I felt distracted, like I was forgetting something important. My quill was sitting on my desk, the blue catching the light of the torches. Blue? Why wasn't it green?

"I was thinking about asking for your life, sir, but that won't work, will it? So I'm going to say  _my_  life, and doesn't that wrap everything up nicely? You will keep quiet about my secrets, or Harry Potter will die." Potter's smile was wicked, and looked strangely appropriate on the boy, as if it were an expression he should have been wearing all along.

_Blue_. Why was it blue? "Of course," I murmured. Potter was smiling. That was good, right? Didn't I want Potter to smile?

"Great!" Potter said cheerily. "I've taken the liberty of preparing the magical contract already. I've even got a blood quill here for us to use."

Potter's quill — Potter's  _quill_  — was a dark, gleaming red. He slapped the contract down onto my desk and handed me the quill. I looked over it absently, but it was short, and to the point. It did what he said — if I spilled any of his secrets, in any way, he would die. End of story. Since it was a magical contract, the ink would turn green once it went into effect. If it ever stopped being in effect for some reason, the ink would turn grey.

My headache had turned into a full-on migraine, and the lights of the classroom felt like daggers being stabbed directly into my eyes. My head hurt so bad I thought I might throw up.

I signed the contract. The blood quill wrote my name briefly on the back of my hand, before the skin healed over.

Potter grabbed the quill out of my hand, and signed the contract as well, with an artful flourish. The ink on the contract turned green.

"Well," Harry said cheerily. "There we go. Thanks a lot,  _professor_." He shoved the quill and contract into his bag, and gave me a wink before disappearing out the door.

I absently reached into my desk and retrieved a headache potion, but already the worst of the migraine was passing. Perfect timing, since I had a class about to come in.

Absolutely perfect.


	9. Harry Learns to Protect His Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! We're almost to the half-way point now. I think chapter 11 will probably be it.
> 
> As always, I welcome any feedback you might have! Someone left me a semi-rude review the other day, but it actually raised a good point and inspired an entire subplot that I'm extremely pleased with, and which I think will make the overall story much better. So definitely don't be afraid to comment!

**Chapter 9 — Harry Learns to Protect His Mind**

Somehow, it had been a month since I'd found those books in Avery's library. A month since the Dark Lord tortured and killed Lucius' favourite peacocks. A month since that class where Potter had first started exhibiting his absurd potions skills. And, of course, somehow convinced me to sign a magical contract requiring me to keep his secrets on pain of his own death.

I didn't like to think about it.

In that month — that strange,  _exhilarating_ , month — Potter had somehow mastered Occlumency.

Completely.

His mind was locked down tighter than Gringotts; his every thought and memory protected. It was absurd, incomprehensible, utterly impossible, and yet there it was. Even I could not argue with such perfect results.

I'd been aching to tell Albus, to share my fears and receive some obtuse and yet strangely reassuring guidance, but I couldn't. Because I'd signed a  _magical contract_. I'd signed with no protest, no negotiating of terms, nothing.

Regardless, it didn't really matter. What did a contract matter, anyway? I had no desire to share Potter's secrets with anyone. I was happy to sign the contract. Certainly there was no point dwelling on it.

Potter was turning out to be remarkably good at Occlumency. I was pleased, of course. It reflected well on my own skill as a teacher that I'd been able to educate him so thoroughly. Really, it was something to be proud of. And I was. Wasn't I? I'd signed— Why wouldn't I be proud? It reflected well on my own skill as a teacher. It— reflected— to educate him so thoroughly. Really, it was something to be— It reflected well—

I had a splitting headache. Almost a migraine, even, although I was holding off on using that description yet since I had the feeling it was only going to get worse.

I rested my chin in my hand, elbow sitting on the table in a desecration of the manners I'd spent so long carefully perfecting. Not that I cared, really. Here I was, sitting at a table in a small restaurant in Diagon Alley, across from a  _beaming_  Dolores Umbridge.

Because I'd agreed to  _go on a date with her_.

The thought was almost too unbearable to think, which was unfortunate, since I was currently living it. Umbridge was droning on about some werewolf legislation she'd helped draft that had recently been passed by the Wizengamot. Yes, I remembered that legislation well — the Dark Lord had been thrilled. Werewolves had been very supportive of him last time around, and after further abuse from the Ministry they would be only too happy to join him again. Umbridge was clearly an idiot if she couldn't see that.

"Werewolves were big supporters of the Dark Lord during the war, you know," she said in a conspiratorial tone.

"Were they?" I asked, feeling suddenly off-kilter.

"Oh yes, big supporters. They were quite violent." Umbridge had a nasty expression on her face, and for the first time ever I actually wondered what she was thinking.

"Aren't you worried this legislation will spur them to further violence?" I asked curiously, carefully sidestepping the small matter of her denying the Dark Lord's return. This date  _had_  to go well. Albus was sure she was planning on passing more educational decrees soon, and wished to know something about them in advance in order to minimise fall out. Not to mention, I wanted to know what exactly her plan with Potter was.

Umbridge snorted, which was extremely unflattering on her. Although I was hardly in a position to judge someone else's appearance (not that it ever stopped me). "They're violent regardless. The legislation we're passing at least gives us a chance to fight back against them."

"I wasn't aware we were at war," I murmured, inwardly gleeful at the irony.

"Oh  _yes_ ," Umbridge said sharply, tapping on the wooden table. The silverware jumped slightly. "We've been at war for hundreds of years, but I am determined to put a stop to it. No one else will ever be harmed by a werewolf if I have anything to say about it!" Her voice had risen over the course of her small speech, and I was taken aback by the passion in her voice. It wasn't something I heard from her often. Generally, everything she said had a thick coat of falsity lathered over it like rich butter. The only other subject I'd heard her speak genuinely about was Potter, and how much she hated him.

"You seem to feel very strongly about this," I observed in a mild tone. My chin was still resting in my hand, and my other hand was playing with the linen napkin. We'd already ordered, but our food had yet to arrive.

I was on a  _date_. With  _Dolores Umbridge_. I sincerely hoped Albus fell off the Astronomy tower. Damn him for making me agree to this.

Umbridge hesitated. She stared down at the table, fiddling with her water glass. She looked nervous, of all things. "How much do you remember about the war?" she asked.  _First_  war, I mentally corrected.

"I was in still school for most of it," I answered truthfully.

Umbridge nodded. "Well, it was— it was madness. People were dying left and right, and no one knew who to trust.  _Anyone_  could have been a servant of You-Know-Who, and so many were, willingly or not. Werewolves especially were incredibly dangerous. Most of the time, they looked perfectly innocent, harmless even, and then the full moon would rise and people would die…" She trailed off, still looking down at the table.

She was wearing a pink cardigan over a frilly white blouse, and had an inane bow in her curly blonde hair. She looked ridiculous, and yet somehow, the serious expression on her face gave her a certain gravitas that I'd never before seen her possess.

We were both quiet as the waiter brought out our food and a bottle of cheap wine. Alcohol would be very necessary on this date. She'd ordered some creamy pasta dish, and I had the lamb.

I couldn't believe I was here. On a  _date_. I hadn't been on a date in years, maybe even a decade (definitely a decade), and had no desire whatsoever to start now. I was perfectly happy dying alone, thank you very much, especially if it meant never having to deal with moments such as these.

I sipped lightly at my wine as I watched Umbridge cut up her pasta into tiny pieces. She looked sad.

"What happened?" I asked softly, to satisfy my inner curiosity. Strange how I felt no qualms at all about prying into her upsetting personal matters. Almost like I actively hated her.

"Werewolves attacked my family," she said shortly, and then grimaced. "It was early on, when the violence was just starting to get serious. We had just gotten home from dinner to celebrate my sister's birthday. She was turning eleven, finally, and was so excited to start Hogwarts in the fall…" Umbridge trailed off again, a wistful expression on her face. "My father tried to defend us, pushing us aside and putting himself between us and those  _creatures_. They ate him alive. I can still remember the way he screamed, even as his insides spilled out onto the floor." She was looking at something off into the distance, lost in a memory.

I felt strangely sick. This hadn't been what I was expecting. It was so much easier to hate her unconditionally when she didn't look so fucking  _sad_.

"Then they turned on my mother and sister. 'No, not Evelyn!' my mother screamed, and she threw herself at one of the monsters. She didn't even have her wand, she just started beating it with her hands. Those things tore her apart.

"And then they started on my sister. I was paralysed with fear, hidden because I'd been in the other room when they'd arrived, although I could still see everything. I watched as they— they ate her slowly. They  _enjoyed_  it. They played with her, taunted her, even as she cried and cried and cried. And then finally they finished, and they looked up at me — and I apparated away."

Merlin on a  _fucking_  carpet ride. I had no idea what to say. "I'm so sorry," I said softly, thankful that she didn't appear to be listening to me, because I knew my words were worthless.

"I went into the Ministry after that. I knew I had to— to do  _something_ , to stop something like that from ever happening to someone else ever again." There was a light in her eyes now, something dark and gleaming.

I said nothing, staring at her with a feeling I couldn't quite put into words.

"And then that  _boy_  happened. He survived You-Know-Who's attack, supposedly because his  _wonderful_  mother sacrificed herself to save him."

Oh Merlin. I grew still, hoping no expression showed on my face. This was easily the most awkward date I'd ever been on, and I had been a  _very_  awkward teenager.

"What made him special?" Umbridge spoke in a furious whisper. "Why did he live? My mother sacrificed herself too! Why didn't my sister live? Why did  _he_  live instead? He's a worthless, idiot boy and he doesn't deserve the life he's been given! He struts around the school as if he owns the place, laughing and smiling when it should be  _my sister who's laughing and smiling in his place_! And he thinks it's  _funny_  to tell everyone that You-Know-Who has returned, with no regard for what that might do to the people who lived through the war! The boy is a despicable liar and I will not stand for it a moment longer!"

Umbridge was panting now, her eyes wide and her bow slightly askew from the force of her conviction.

I felt a strange chill go down my spine. I had been wrong to dismiss her as nothing more than a Ministry flunky. This was a woman set on revenge, and she would make a formidable opponent.

We stared at each other in silence for a long, awkward moment.

"Your passion is remarkable," I finally said, stunning myself with my honesty.

Umbridge smiled at that; slight, but there nonetheless. "Thank you, Severus," she said quietly. "Thank you for listening."

"Of course, Dolores," I replied, maintaining eye contact and trying to keep my expression gentle. I felt deeply shaken. "I will always listen to you."

She blushed, at that, and smiled tenderly. Our gazes held as I took a small sip from my wine glass.

What the fuck was happening right now.

"Do you have any…  _plans_  for the Potter boy?" I asked, smirking. Make her feel like we were in on a joke together, and she would be more amenable to sharing information.

"I may have," she answered coyly, with a  _flirtatious_  smile. Sod Albus. Sod the war, sod the Dark Lord, and sod Potter. I could live out the rest of my days in Finland, eating rotten fish and sitting in hot pools. Or was that Norway? I had no idea, I'd hardly ever been outside the UK. But I  _could_. What was keeping me here, honestly? A promise I'd made to Albus? Promises were easily broken, I knew that only too well. I'd already given so much, surely I deserved a break?

"To expel him?" I asked curiously. "Merlin knows I've tried that,  _many_  times over the past few years."

"Oh yes, Severus, I'd heard all about your noble efforts. But no, I'm afraid, I'm not trying to expel him." She shoved a spoonful of pasta into her mouth. Honestly, who ate pasta with a spoon?

"Oh?" I asked, with a slight raise of my eyebrow. The lamb was actually delicious, which almost made this whole thing bearable. But not quite.

"Oh no, I need him  _right_  where I can see him." She had a vindictive smile on her face, and I feared for the boy, I truly did. He didn't realise what sort of enemy he'd made, mouthing off in class and piling up boy barely had time to sneak away for Occlumency lessons, not that he really needed them anymore.  _How_  had he learned Occlumency so quickly? How? I suppose it reflected well on my own skill as a teacher— Really, it was something—

"Do you?" I asked, smiling to cover up the increasing pain in my head. Was this the migraine I'd been expecting? I drank down my glass of wine.

"Oh yes," Umbridge said wickedly. "That boy won't know what hit him."

"Surely you won't leave me in suspense, Dolores," I said, leaning forwards. I helped myself to some more wine, and topped up her glass as well.

She fluttered her stubbly eyelashes at me. "Oh Severus, don't you want to be surprised?"

"Only if it's a good one," I responded flirtatiously. Was this my life? Was this what I was reduced to? I was a joke of a human being, a caricature of someone that had once been strong and independent.

Oh, who was I kidding. I'd never been strong  _or_  independent. I'd gone from one master to the next to the next — following Lily around until I fucked that up, then following the Dark Lord, then Dumbledore— My life had never been my own, not since that first day when I'd seen her on the swings, red hair streaming behind her in the wind. She'd looked so full of life, so happy, everything that I  _wasn't_. She'd shone like the sun, when all I had ever known was darkness. And the Dark Lord — so charismatic, so charming, making me feel like I was  _someone_  even when I'd been worse than nothing. The simple truth was that I would follow anyone who even pretended to believe I could be someone better, and I would follow them until the ends of the earth.

Until I betrayed them, which given my track record seemed to be inevitable. Would I betray Albus, too?

If I had to go on another date with Umbridge, I would strongly consider it.

"Well, I'll give you a  _small_ hint, since you asked so politely." Umbridge was dying to tell me, it was painfully obvious. She must have thought herself very clever, for planning this whole revenge scheme. "Potter's behaviour is going to get himself and  _everyone around him_  into trouble." She leaned back in her chair with a self-satisfied smirk.

It seemed likely that her plan was to turn the school against Potter by setting him up as a villain. Unfortunately for her, she failed to realise that most of the school was  _already_  against the boy, and she'd set  _herself_  up as the perfect villain and foil for Potter's heroics. I had no doubt by the end of the school year, everyone would once again worship him.

"Brilliant," I said obligingly, wondering if I needed to elaborate. How much fawning did the woman expect from me?

We both returned awkwardly to our food, and ate in silence for a while. On one hand, I'd promised Albus I'd attempt to get information on her next educational decrees. On the other… I'd already learned her plan for Potter, and quite frankly this whole evening was unbearable.

Thankfully, it didn't take much longer before she decided to tell me herself.

"I'll have you know," she said smugly. "I'm working on something  _very_  big." Was that supposed to impress me?

"Bigger than taking down the boy wonder?" I asked, raising my eyebrow slightly. What a waste of a perfectly good facial expression.

Umbridge beamed. "It's my next educational decree, you see. It will give me  _supreme_  authority over all punishments."

"That's very impressive," I responded, trying to sound like I meant it. I could already tell this would be a pain in the fucking arse.

"Well, I had to, you see. After the  _illustrious_  headmaster and his deputy decided to reform the Gryffindor quidditch team  _without_  my approval, I simply had to take a stand." Oh yes, they had done that, hadn't they. Minerva had known there would be backlash, but she hadn't been able to resist taunting Umbridge.

"Of course," I murmured in assent. I had no doubt Minerva would feel terrible about this. "Surely you don't intend to take on all the punishments yourself? You deserve — more than  _anyone_ , I'm sure — free time to relax." I probably could have done a more elegant job of dangling the bait, and I had no doubt if Lucius were here he would laugh at me, but at this point I just wanted the evening to end. I'd finished my dinner, and most assuredly did  _not_  want dessert.

Umbridge frowned. "I hadn't thought of that. I guess I'm just used to working thankless hours, since my time is always in such high demand at the Ministry," she said with a dramatic sigh.

I  _highly_  doubted the veracity of her statement. Most likely they'd wanted to get rid of her, if they were so willing to ship her off to Hogwarts.

"If you ever feel overworked or simply need time to yourself, don't hesitate to ask me. You're under enough stress as it is, without these dunderheaded students adding to your workload." Sincerity was the goal here, and it must have worked, because Umbridge's frown melted into a tender smile.

"Oh Severus, you're too sweet."

Merlin. I was sincerely thankful that we were alone right now. The mortification of this moment caused my cheeks to heat up, which I hoped Umbridge would interpret as me being shy or some such romantic nonsense.

Thankfully, the rest of dinner (which much to my dismay did indeed include dessert) passed relatively easily, with nothing more than tedious small talk.

We returned to the castle together, but I managed to extricate myself from her presence with complaints of grading and return to my quarters unmolested.

The diary of Balarin Bane sat on my desk, taunting me. So far I'd only managed to unravel the first two weeks of entries. The code changed every week, and while I suspected there was an overall pattern, I'd yet to figure it out.

The first two weeks were unfortunately mostly filled with descriptions of various ailments and aches Bane had somehow acquired. The man was the biggest hypochondriac I'd ever seen. He was certain he was going to die any day, and he took every headache and stomach pain as absolute proof.

Still, it'd offered an interesting insight into the history of the castle, although none of it was truly revolutionary information. Apparently there'd used to be a large staff of squibs, who were kept in stables next to the Forbidden Forest. The despicable nature of human kind was hardly news to me, but the description of one squib woman who'd had her son taken from her when he exhibited signs of magic was difficult to read.

Nothing like this appeared in any of the recent editions of Hogwarts, A History.

In regards to my other research… All the reading I'd done suggested that protection of this caliber, originating from the mind, had to be a consciously done piece of magic performed by someone extremely powerful. Subconscious magic (accidental magic) never appeared in this form.

Which meant either Potter was doing it purposefully, or something seriously strange was going on. Until this past month, I would have immediately dismissed the first as nonsense. But Potter's behaviour recently had bordered on the bizarre, and I was unwilling to dismiss anything out of hand.

Additionally, while I hadn't heard of anything that could  _twist_  the soul, there did exist magics to fracture the soul. Only one of Avery's books had mentioned it, and even then only in passing. Apparently it was too dark even for dark arts books.

Of course, I knew exactly where to look for—

"Master Snape sir?" Mipsy said, appearing in my sitting room suddenly.

"Yes?" I asked, setting down my notes. I had a feeling I knew what this was about, and I felt practically giddy with anticipation.

"Madam Pomfrey is wanting you, sir, and Miss Minerva also." She wrung her hands nervously, but relaxed when I nodded at her.

"In the hospital wing?" I asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you very much. You are dismissed." The elf disappeared with a small pop, and I headed out the door once more. I hadn't even had time to take my boots off. Thank Merlin I'd gotten back to the castle in time. Apparently I'd overestimated Draco.

"You called for me?" I asked, after I'd made it to the hospital wing. Draco and Parkinson were each in a bed, and Minerva was talking quietly to Poppy, frowning in disapproval.

The two women turned towards me. Minerva gave a small 'humph' when she saw me.

"I did," Poppy said, glancing back at Minerva. "Two of your students were injured today, rather badly in fact." She hesitated.

"What happened?" I asked, when she failed to continue. I glanced over at Minerva, who was still glowering.

"Mister Malfoy was playing with a  _highly_  dangerous enchanted item in the corridor, and it backfired. Both he and Miss Parkinson were caught in the explosion," said Minerva curtly.

I looked over at where Draco was lying in the hospital bed. He appeared embarrassed, but ultimately unconcerned. This was going to be  _excellent_.

"Did he now?" I said silkily, still staring at the boy.

"He put himself and every person in this castle at risk," Minerva insisted.

"And Miss Parkinson?" I asked.

Minerva hesitated for a moment, before saying "The evidence seems to indicate that Miss Parkinson was nothing more than an innocent bystander."

That was fine. Parkinson at least did a halfway decent job as prefect. She enjoyed the power a little too much, but she took the work seriously.

"Mister Malfoy," I said, turning and addressing the boy. Unnecessarily, perhaps, since he'd obviously been listening in already. "This behaviour is most unbefitting of a prefect." Likely he'd already been yelled at by Minerva, but I would enjoy this.

Draco only just managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes, I could tell. He still wasn't taking this seriously.

"Yes sir," he responded dutifully. Minerva looked like she was about to interrupt, but I shook my head at her minutely, and she paused. She'd never approved of my lenience towards my students, but she respected me enough as a colleague to wait and see where I went with this.

"Prefects must not only live up to the responsibility assigned to them, but they must also serve as role-models for the younger students," I said sharply. I made sure to include my best glare, as well. The boy didn't seem cowed.

"Yes sir," Draco said, arrogance still lacing his tone.

"Your behaviour today was extremely reckless, putting not only yourself and Miss Parkinson at risk, but everyone in this castle. This is unacceptable." I paused for a moment, staring down at the boy, who stayed silent this time. He was finally starting to look uncertain. "Mister Malfoy, let me make something perfectly clear. Since the very first day of this semester, you have made a mockery of the prefect system. This responsibility was yours to live up to, not abuse."

Draco had turned a deep red, and Minerva and Poppy both looked stunned. Miss Parkinson was clearly trying to hide a smirk.

"My father-"

"I spoke with your father just last week," I continued, cutting the boy off before he could make a fool of himself. I wanted that pleasure. "Your father is rather  _preoccupied_  at the moment, and doesn't have time to deal with your silly schoolyard shenanigans. He told me to do  _whatever was necessary_. Do you understand?"

Draco had gone completely pale. He clearly understood. Miss Parkinson had pulled her blanket up to her nose, but her smile was clearly readable in her eyes. Minerva looked like Christmas had come early.

"Sir?" the boy finally asked, his voice faint.

"I will be revoking your prefect status until such a time when you prove yourself worthy of the position," I informed him stiffly. Anything other than extreme formality and I would likely start smiling. Like Poppy was doing, as she pretended to rifle through a potions cabinet.

"That's not fair!" Draco whined, and it amazed me that he actually thought that would have any traction with me whatsoever.

"Not only is it completely fair, but even if it weren't, does it look like I care?" I responded dryly. I would treasure this memory deeply.

Draco sunk back in his bed, clearly defeated. I supposed he couldn't argue with my logic.

I held out my hand, raising my eyebrows expectantly. The boy sulkily fished in his bag, and pulled out his obviously recently polished prefect badge. He slapped it into my hand, and I put it gracefully into my pocket.

"Was there anything else you required?" I addressed Minerva and Poppy.

"No, no," Minerva said, looking fairly stunned. "That was everything."

"If I may," I added silkily. "I would like to look at the remains of this enchanted item."

"Oh, of course," Poppy said, jerking into motion. She fetched a small wooden box from her office, and opened it carefully. "It's actually in surprisingly good condition," she said, as we peered inside.

"I see," I responded absently. Inside the box sat a roughly carved wooden doll, looking almost identical to the one I'd left in the Slytherin common room earlier today. If a little more charred, perhaps. "Have you detected any curse residue?" I asked, sticking to the usual script.

"None so far, but perhaps you could give it a second look?" inquired Poppy.

"Of course," I murmured in assent. "I shall dispose of it as well." In fact, it was going back into my private collection. I'd simply have to take care that Draco never saw it, and considering he'd never been in my quarters, this would likely be no hardship.

"Minerva. Poppy," I said, taking the wooden box and nodding my farewell. "I shall see you tomorrow."

"Actually, Severus," Minerva said, catching my arm gently. "Shall we discuss your choice for replacement prefect?"

"Ah yes. I have some ideas, actually." We both made the conscious effort not to look at Draco, but there was a hint of humour in Minerva's voice that I knew would be much more prevalent if Draco wasn't clearly listening in.

Minerva followed me out of the hospital wing, and as soon as the doors closed behind us, a smile burst across her face.

"I thought you weren't going to punishment him," she said in amazement.

I snorted. "Draco Malfoy is one of the worst prefects I've ever had."

"I had wondered why you chose him," Minerva admitted. "But as you know, I almost chose Ron Weasley, so I didn't feel I was in a good place to judge."

"Lucius Malfoy believed his son to be worthy of the position," I said dryly.

"And now?"

We were walking slowly towards the dungeons, meandering in order to give our conversation time to run its course. Hardly a secure location, however. "Now he no longer cares what happens with his son," I informed her. She looked absolutely delighted by this fact.

"The timing couldn't be better," she said cheerfully. "Now the boy has a chance to grow up a little, while still having a few years left of school."

"Indeed." We slowed to a halt at the edge of the Great Hall, next to where the staircase down was.

"Who do you like for a replacement?"

"Blaise Zabini, perhaps." Really, it was the only choice. Crabbe and Goyle were out for obvious reasons, and Nott was too much in his own head. Not to mention my personal schemes.

"A wise choice," Minerva said, her lips pursed. Likely she was considering the other potential candidates.

"I meant what I said," I warned, after a moment's pause.

"Excuse me?" she asked, bewildered.

"If I feel that Malfoy has sufficiently learned his lesson, I will restore his prefect status." I hesitated for a moment. "It may become necessary for other reasons as well."

Minerva let out a heavy sigh. "I realise that your job is a very delicate balancing act, Severus, but frankly I feel that some of the things you do cross the line."

I was going to pretend she meant my lenience towards punishing my Slytherins, and not my classroom behaviour. I was as nice to the students as I was physically capable of being. Besides, they didn't need  _nice_  from me. They had Pomona or Filius from that. The only thing they needed from me was Potions knowledge, and judging by the reasonable popularity of my N.E.W.T. potions class despite my strict grade requirement, I was clearly doing an adequate job. "The things I am forced to do often infuriate me," I told her honestly. I wasn't forced to be cruel to students. That was my pleasure.

Minerva sighed again. "I know, and I respect that. But I don't have to like it."

"Of course," I replied. "I shall be at breakfast tomorrow at eight." Technically Umbridge had breakfast duty, but we had decided (for obvious reasons) that someone else should be there at all times to ensure nothing disastrous happened. Or at least, nothing more disastrous than usual.

"Thank you Severus," Minerva said gratefully. "Good night."

I returned back to my quarters, waiting until my door was safely closed before I let out a quiet, self-satisfied chuckle.

* * *

The next day, Poppy called me back to the hospital wing. The students had already been released, and there didn't seem to be anyone in the wing at all.

"What is it?" I asked, appearing in the door to her office.

Poppy started when she heard my voice. "Goodness, Severus!" she said, and dropped a scroll onto her desk. She removed her glasses and rubbed her face wearily, leaning back heavily in her chair.

I stared at her expectantly. She looked up at me briefly, sighed, and looked away again.

"Did you know Miss Parkinson was pregnant?" she finally asked.

As a matter of fact, no, I hadn't known that. " _Was_  pregnant?" I asked sharply.

Poppy nodded. "I can't tell if it was an accident, or she took a potion deliberately, but she is no longer pregnant. She couldn't have been more than two or three months along."

I wasn't sure what to do with this information. Did this change anything? What would it change?

"Thank you for informing me," I said, mind whirling away. The book Nott had been reading last month — could he have brewed something for her? I hadn't thought they were that good of friends. Could Nott have been the father? The potion was fiendishly complicated, however. I would have been very surprised if a fifth year managed it, even one that was quite skilled.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. She looked… tired.

"Nothing," I replied honestly. "Even if I wanted to do something, what would I do?"

Poppy nodded blankly. "They grow up too fast," she said, more to herself than anything.

"Is that all?" I asked, and she nodded.

"Farewell," she said absently, staring at the wall. I took my leave.

One more piece of the puzzle, I supposed. Strange, how I didn't feel pleased.

* * *

It was already shaping up to be a long week, and it was only Monday. Blaise Zabini had been a prefect less than twenty-four hours, and apparently the power had already gone to his head.

"What are you doing, Mister Zabini?" I asked wearily, standing next to the Slytherin table at lunch. I'd reluctantly walked down here after watching Zabini make a first-year fetch him some jelly from the other end of the table.

"Having dessert," Zabini said innocently, as Miss Morgan set the dish in front of the boy, gave me a terrified look, and then scurried off again.

"You do realise you're a prefect, not a king?" I eyed the other end of the table, where Draco was smugly watching our interaction. This was still better, I decided.

"Can't I be both?" responded Zabini with what I'm sure he thought was a charming grin.

I was too tired for this. I left the Great Hall, only to bump into Trelawney right outside the doors. She gasped, and immediately grabbed my arms.

"Severus!" she exclaimed. Her grip was tight, fingers digging into my arms. She smelled of cheap wine and cigarettes. Was she already pissed? Jesus. It was noon on a Monday. (The smell brought back uncomfortable memories of my father swearing at me, swaying slightly with a bottle in his hand. I resolutely ignored them.)

"What. Do. You. Want." I said, as rudely as possible. She ignored me.

"Severus, I have seen the future!"

"Have you now?" I asked her, with a slight raise of my brow. She wasn't worth a full brow raise.

"The world, Severus! The world will be pulled apart! Ripped into pieces!"

"What are you blathering on about now?" I asked her icily. She was still holding onto my arms, and I desperately hoped Umbridge didn't come across us now and see us. That was not a conversation I wanted to have in front of the Great Hall.

"Two pieces, Severus! Everything as we know it! Darkness! Tragedy!"

I finally managed to extricate myself from her grip. "Well, this has been utterly pointless, so I'm going to leave."

"The world is ending, and I'm the only one who can see it!" she called at me as I left.

That was Monday.

Tuesday, of course, was no better. That evening was the Halloween feast, and I had the dubious pleasure of helping Flora Carrow herd half the first-years to the hospital wing after they complained of stomach aches. From eating too many sweets was the explanation they left unspoken.

Miss Carrow also informed me that some of the Slytherins had taken to organising a small self-study group for Defence.

"I heard that Potter's doing the same thing," she added darkly.

"Is he now," I said mildly, not looking at the girl as we walked back to the dungeons from the hospital wing together. The first-years were being kept over night (likely so Poppy could make sure they didn't eat anything else).

"That's what Hestia told me. She heard it from the Weasley twins."

"Both of them?"

She glanced over at me in amusement. "Well, I can't be sure which it was, so I thought it better to implicate both of them."

"A wise decision."

"Potter's got a lot of older students in his group," she commented mildly.

"Does he?" I replied neutrally. I had no idea where she was going with this.

"I've heard he's impressed a lot of people. Very talented, they say."

"Who?" Just how many people were in his little group?

"No one important," she dismissed. "Apparently he's a very charismatic leader. And they say Granger can be downright scary."

All useful information, but I still failed to see the point of telling me any of this. Moreover, Miss Carrow had run out of time, as the passage to the common room was approaching.

"Your observations have been noted," I told her, as she quietly whispered the password to the wall.

She paused for a moment before entering. "No one expected Draco to lose his badge," she finally said.

Ah. There it was. "I merely did what I felt necessary," I said silkily, and pointedly fell silent. If she wanted reassurance from me that she would not lose her position, she would find herself disappointed.

"Yes, professor," she agreed, and disappeared into the common room.

That was Tuesday.

During my morning potions class the next day, Miss Lovegood once more took to experimenting. She tried a few subtle substitutions, ones that were generally quite common. They worked as intended, although didn't produce a better potion, despite being stronger ingredients. I watched her as she flipped through her book, brow furrowed, and wondered if she would realise why.

In her haste, she knocked her coloured pencils off her desk, and they rolled away from her.

"Oh, Luna, here you go," Miss Marsh said, picking up a pencil and handing it to Miss Lovegood with a smile.

"Here's another!" Mister Zeppley said cheerfully, handing over another pencil.

"Oh, the last one's over here!" Miss Bennet called quietly, and ducked under her desk to retrieve it.

"Thanks, everyone!" Miss Lovegood said with a wide smile, as she recollected her drawing tools.

This was perhaps almost as baffling as Potter's strange potions skills, which by now were so commonplace that even Draco seemed more resigned than anything. A month ago, Miss Lovegood would have been ignored by her peers as she was forced to crawl around the classroom, collecting her things by herself. And now her classmates were being unfailingly polite to her. I was mystified.

That was Wednesday.

On Thursday, Umbridge passed her newest educational decree, the one she'd mentioned on our…  _date_. Surprisingly, there had been little reaction to it. Most students didn't seem to have any understanding of how it would affect them (except for Potter, who'd taken one look at the notice, smirked slightly, and then hurried off to class). The other professors had all been warned in advance by Albus, and carefully didn't react.

That evening, Umbridge marched a first-year Gryffindor — whose only crime had been stopping Potter in the hall to fawn over him — immediately down to her office for detention, where she proceeded to make the poor girl write lines with a  _blood quill_  of all things.

Using a blood quill, on a first-year! At dinner that evening, Minerva was livid. Albus had been deeply disturbed as well. Likely we would be talking about it at the Order meeting tomorrow.

"How dare she?" Minerva hissed at me, once Umbridge had finished dinner and left.

"You know how," I responded, not looking over at where she was seated next to me. I stared down at my plate instead. Lasagna, tonight. It was adequate.

Minerva deflated surprisingly quickly. She slumped in her chair, staring despondently at her tea.

"Have I failed them?" she asked quietly, startling me into looking at her.

"Excuse me?" I asked, unsure if I had heard her correctly.

"Have I failed them?" she repeated. "My students."

"Whatever gave you that impression?" I replied idiotically. Obviously I knew what gave her that impression; I'd just been stunned into stupidity. Minerva was also so composed, so confident. She'd been something of a mentor to me when I'd started teaching. I'd always thought of her as someone who knew all the answers. To see her uncertain was unsettling.

Minerva let out a long sigh. "I'm meant to be brave," she said quietly. "They need me to be brave, to be strong, and instead I tell them to keep their heads down and keep quiet. What's brace about that?"

"Your students have plenty of bravery," I started slowly. 'They idolise it to an extreme. They don't need you to be brave for them; they'll do that all on their own. They need you to be  _smart_  for them. To be loyal, to be clever. They need you to check their more dangerous impulses and keep them  _safe_."

Minerva smiled weakly at me. "You're right, of course you're right." She looked over at the Gryffindor table, full of laughing, smiling students stuffing their faces. "They have no idea how hard it's going to be."

"Is it not our job to keep them ignorant? Our job, as  _educators_  and caretakers?" I gripped my fork tightly, not letting Minerva see the sudden and acute embarrassment I felt even before I saw her expression change.

"Of course not," she said, sounding slightly scandalised. I lowered my head, letting my hair fall in front of my face. "We may not tell them everything all the time, but that doesn't change the fact that our very reason for existing is to  _teach_."

I felt strongly that Minerva had misunderstood my point, but at the same time I couldn't put together the words to correct her. I felt off-balance, seeing her disapproval aimed at me so directly. Indignant, on my own behalf, and also exhausted. I'd faced her disapproval hundreds of times over my teaching methods. Why was now suddenly different?

In the end, I merely smirked at her, and finished my dinner. She could interpret my comment as a joke, and forget that we'd ever disagreed. I could pretend this had never happened.

And Thursday night, of course —  _of course_  — I dreamt of the Dark Lord.

He was lying on the carpeted floor, ankles crossed; fingers steepled together and pressed against his lips. He looked deep in thought, and strangely vulnerable. His normally perfect hair was messy, and his shirt was rumpled. He wasn't wearing shoes, but rather the thick grey socks I'd started to become accustomed to.

"My lord?" I asked in bewilderment, staring down at him. He glanced over at me and smiled slightly.

"Ah, Severus, how good of you to join me."

I had no idea what to make of this, so I stayed silent.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asked curiously. "Why you keep dreaming of me?"

And with a jolt, the awareness that I was in a dream came rushing back to me. I felt strangely removed from my own actions, as if in a pensieve watching a memory that had already happened.

"No, my lord," I felt myself answer.

"Hmm." He fell silent, gaze returning to the ceiling. I stared down at his perfect, flawless face, untouched by death or dark rituals. He looked so different from the Dark Lord as I knew him today, yet the resemblance was obvious once one started looking.

"Would you like me to tell you?" he asked, not looking at me.

"I'm not sure," I answered honestly, and he smirked.

"Clever. But you always were a clever one, weren't you?" He looked up at me again, at where I was standing. It felt strange to be looking down on him, and vaguely disrespectful.

"If you say so, my lord," I murmured, finding my gaze trapped in his own.

"Don't think I haven't noticed," he told me. Was that a threat? A warning?

I stayed silent.

"Still, I suppose I can hardly blame you for being curious.  _I_  was certainly curious. I was surprised, and you of all people should know how I feel about surprises."

Should I? I supposed, from what I knew of the Dark Lord, that he would dislike surprises greatly, but was there a specific event that he was referring to?

The Dark Lord, from his spot on the floor, continued talking. "In the end, it was my own hubris that felled me. Can you imagine? Such a cliche. I'd always thought myself better than the greats, but there I was. Of course, that's not the  _entire_  story, now is it?"

"You've hardly been felled, my lord," I pointed out, my dream self perhaps more reckless than I would have been in reality. "You've come back stronger than ever."

The Dark Lord stared at the ceiling in quiet contemplation. Merlin, but he looked young. "I had, in fact, noticed that," he said finally. "I suppose this was rather inevitable. Strange, how scared I was.  _'His equal'_ — I should have realised."

The prophecy? What was he talking about? "Realised what, my lord?" I asked. The scene had shifted, in the way dreams so often do, and the world around us had grown hazy and indistinct. My focus was still on the Dark Lord, and everything else had become irrelevant.

"It's genius!" he exclaimed, sitting up suddenly. He smiled up at me pityingly, before resting his hands behind him and leaning back casually. "Can't you see the elegance? The dramatic irony, the beautiful narrative? Of course it had to be me — it couldn't ever be anyone else, don't you see? I never predicted this, never imagined that they would be  _conscious_ , but here we are."

I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, but I felt a strange sense of fear building up. Was that smoke, curling up in the distance? Were those eyes I saw, staring at me? The air was thick and heavy, bearing down on me oppressively. The Dark Lord stood up effortlessly, even as I struggled to move. He produced from his sleeve a single white flower, which he offered to me with a wink, before it burst into flames and disintegrated into ash.

"I—" I struggled to form sentences, to move even my mouth.

"Yes, Severus?" the Dark Lord asked, leaning in towards me. "I'm not sure I quite caught that." He was smiling at me, effortlessly charming and terrifyingly menacing.

"I don't— I don't understand—" I was struggling to breathe, to make myself heard against the roaring in my ears. I had so much I wanted to say, but I couldn't force the words to leave my brain. I was trapped, wrapped up in myself so tightly that breaking the bonds would only injure me further and he was looking at me with carefree amusement, as if I were a pet that had just done a particularly neat trick—

"Don't you see?" he repeated. "It's a game, Severus. And I'm going to win."

And then he put his hands on my shoulders and  _pushed_  and I found myself thrown screaming into awareness.


	10. Severus Learns to Stop Complaining (Things Can Always Get Worse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, new chapter! This one was weirdly hard for me to write. Next chapter should be very fun though.

**Chapter 10 — Severus Learns to Stop Complaining (Things Can Always Get Worse)**

On Friday evening, I found myself at Grimmauld Place for yet another meeting of the Order of the Phoenix. The kitchen table was surrounded by a small group, but there were still enough people for me to feel vaguely uncomfortable.

Lupin and Black sat next to each other, as always. Mister Weasley (only the elder one this time — his slightly younger brother had gone back to Romania), Nymphadora, and Moody made up the usual trio at the end of the table where I always sat. Minerva was talking quietly with Molly and Arthur, and Albus was standing at the head of the table, overlooking us with a troubled frown.

I gave the three sitting next to me a small nod as I sat down.

"Hello, Severus," Nymphadora said cheekily.

"Good evening, Nymphadora," I replied, but she merely smirked in response. Alas. I had hoped to get more mileage out of using her hated first name.

Mister Weasley rolled his eyes at her good-naturedly, and Moody ignored us completely, both of his eyes fixed on Albus.

"Severus," Albus said, gesturing grandly at me. "How is young Harry faring?"

"In learning Occlumency, you mean?" I clarified. I didn't want to talk about Potter at all, actually, but at least Occlumency was easiest.

Although with the way Black was staring at me, a hungry expression on his face, perhaps I would regret my haste.

"Yes," Albus confirmed, but didn't elaborate.

I carefully put an annoyed grimace on my face. "He is working harder than I expected him to," I said. That was a lie, obviously. The boy didn't have to try at all. His Occlumency skills were remarkable, actually. Really, it was something to be proud of.

"Is he making adequate progress?" Albus asked, and I scowled. What did that even  _mean_ , adequate progress?

"I suppose one could say that," I agreed. Likely they would interpret my scowl as unwillingness to say anything nice about the boy.

Albus stared at me a second longer, a strange look on his face. "I would have thought that Harry's temperament would make this very difficult for him to learn," he said slowly. Why have me teach the boy at all then?

"I suppose it reflects well on my own skill as a teacher," I answered mechanically, and Black let out a loud snort.

"Your skills as a teacher? Don't make me fucking laugh, Snivvy," the odious moron said. Lupin looked like he wanted nothing more than to sink under the table and into the floor.

I hated that nickname with a burning passion. The only thing that stopped me from cursing Black until he vomited up his own hands was the fact that to everyone else, he looked like a petulant child and I the mature adult.

"Mister Black," Minerva snapped, in her best teacher tone of voice. "That is enough."

Black at least looked mildly chagrined, before he shrugged it off. He kept quiet though. Apparently the mutt  _was_  capable of learning after all.

Albus was still staring at me. "That's wonderful to hear," he said softly, once I'd looked back at him. He offered me a small smile that felt oddly insincere.

"Why does Harry have to learn Occlumency anyway?" Black complained, when he finally got fed up of not having any attention on him.

Albus glanced over at him in consideration. "Harry will undoubtedly face Voldemort again," he told Black, who looked stricken at the thought. Everyone looked at least a little pale, actually. "And when that time comes, if Harry isn't properly protected, then Voldemort will be able to reach into Harry's mind and learn every little secret that Harry knows about our cause." He paused for a moment to let his words sink in. He looked at all of us in turn, making sure we understood the gravity of what he was saying. Making sure we understood that if we were to ever meet the Dark Lord, this fate would await us as well. (Well, perhaps not me, personally, but certainly the rest of the imbeciles I was surrounded by).

Molly opened her mouth to protest, undoubtedly against Potter being told any of our secrets, but she fell silent at another look from Albus.

"Do you really think Harry will be content to remain in the dark forever?" Albus asked her, and she sighed in response.

"No, of course not," Molly said, and I had no doubt it was killing her.

"Now, Nymphadora, you mentioned you'd heard something interesting at the Ministry?" Albus prompted, moving on from Potter smoothly.

Nymphadora looked like she might protest the use of her name, but it seemed even she noticed the strange tension in the air. Black certainly wasn't helping; glowering at the table like a petulant child. "Ah, yeah, it's about Umbridge," she said, and Minerva let out a small hiss.

That… was precious, actually, and I would be teasing her mercilessly about that later. I tried to catch her eye but she was obviously ignoring me.

Nymphadora, to her credit (or perhaps realising that Minerva was not in the mood for anything less than complete professionalism), continued on: "Apparently she's been asking around in the records office, trying to get more info on Professor McGonagall here."

Albus and Minerva both glanced at each other in surprise. I felt disturbed not only by this knowledge, but that I hadn't known about it.

"She didn't mention anything about this to you?" Albus asked, addressing me.

"No," I responded curtly, ignoring the looks of confusion at why exactly Albus was asking me this.

"Very well. Do you know what she was looking for?" he asked Nymphadora.

"Sorry, no. Reggie said she was just looking at basic records and such. Birth certificate, licences, stuff like that."

Minerva had turned pale, and I saw her fist clench where it rested on top of the table.

Albus glanced over at her, but he didn't seem surprised by her reaction. I felt it would be rather imprudent to say anything, and kept quiet even though I desperately wanted to know more. The two shared a small moment of silent communication before Albus sighed heavily once more and turned back to the table.

"Please keep an eye out for any more information on what she could be looking for," he told Nymphadora, and she nodded.

"Of course, professor," she said, and I thought Albus might correct her, but instead he turned towards Lupin.

"And how are you faring?" he asked, and Lupin let out a tired sigh.

"Not as well as I hoped," the wolf admitted. "Voldemort's promised them freedom if they fight for him. I've tried telling him that he doesn't mean it, that he intends for them to die, but they feel they have no choice. The most recent legislation passed by the Ministry has sent them right into his arms."

That would be the werewolves, fighting for what they thought was their only chance at a better future. Maybe it was, for all I knew. Would death be better than the half-life they were forced to lead now?

Albus looked very grave indeed. "That is troubling news," he said. "Mister Weasley?" he asked, turning towards the young man sitting near me.

"Well, I've asked around some of my contacts, and you were right. The only way to destroy a physical representation of a prophecy is to actually smash the globe it's in."

Albus nodded his understanding.

"Moreover, no one really knows anything about what's going on in the Department of Mysteries. The Unspeakables actually collaborated with a group I was in a while back, helping us unravel some particularly nasty curses around this Sumerian tomb, but they haven't really worked with anyone since."

"What curses?" Albus asked in interest. The spark of scholarly interest twinkled in his eye.

"Oh, a bunch of crazy stuff, although one really stood out from the rest," Weasley said, leaning forward. "The tomb was very old, and there was this box in it — tons of pictures on the side, and we had no idea what was in it. Parts of the tombs had actually been dug out by Muggles a while ago, but there were certain wards that restricted access to only those who could cast magic, so they missed a lot of it. They managed a very interesting analysis, though, of some of the—" He must have noticed that our attention was starting to drift, because he cut himself off and grinned sheepishly. "Ah— sorry. Anyway, the box: the room around it was heavily warded, but the box itself didn't seem to have any magic…" He trailed off, staring down at the table with a puzzled expression.

"Bill?" Molly said in concern, and Weasley started slightly.

"Right, yes, sorry. The Unspeakables came to us, actually. After we failed to open the box, they found us. They said that something very important was inside the box, and that we'd gotten very lucky in being able to open it at all."

"I thought you said you couldn't open it?" Nymphadora asked, and Weasley nodded.

"Right, that was the strange thing— no trace of wards or anything, but none of our spells would open the box. The Unspeakables said it was a curse, but it was unlike any curse any of us had ever seen. I mean, what sort of curse doesn't register as magic? And anyway, it wasn't a very good once, since it didn't stop us from breaking into the box."

"You just said you  _didn't_  break into it," Nymphadora insisted again, and once more, Weasley nodded.

"Right, right, we didn't break into it. We couldn't, actually. I'm the one who tried to open it, but it was stuck fast, even after every opening charm we could think of."

I felt a distinct sense of unease at his words, and noticed that I wasn't the only one feeling that way. Albus, however, looked thrilled.

"That sounds like very old magic," he said, examining Weasley as if he'd never seen him before. I didn't believe he was referring to the box staying closed. "I'd heard of it once in passing, but I'd never believed the tales. I'd imagine the Unspeakables were very interested in that box."

"Yeah, they took it with them, and everything that was inside it as well."

"Mister Weasley," I asked quietly, cutting off Nymphadora before she could protest again. "What was inside the box?"

"That's the funny thing, professor," Mister Weasley said. "It was just a bunch of stones."

We all fell silent.

"Albus, what the devil is going on?" Minerva demanded, while the rest of us stared at Weasley. We'd all been stunned speechless, it seemed. Well, I was hardly  _stunned_. Perhaps perplexed, or bewildered. Certainly not stunned.

Mister Weasley looked confused by all the attention, and Albus still had that fucking twinkle in his eye.

"It seems Mister Weasley underwent a very strange magical effect while in Iraq," he said cheerfully.

"Is he okay?" Molly asked fearfully, while Mister Weasley looked even more confused.

"There's nothing to worry about, Molly," Albus reassured. "He's perfectly fine. Mister Weasley here opened the box — but he also did not open the box."

"You've lost me completely," Black said. What an idiot. Albus' explanation was perfectly obvious, although I would prefer to keep listening to it, just to confirm what I was already thinking, of course.

"In essence, Mister Weasley lived out both possibilities. Reality split around a single event, only to be joined back together once the Unspeakables took the box. Since the same action occurred in both worlds, the two realities were once more similar enough to merge back together, leaving Mister Weasley with both sets of memories." Albus looked pleased as fucking punch at the explanation.

Weasley just looked vaguely uncomfortable.

"But it didn't affect anyone here in England," Nymphadora asked uncertainly.

"We were much too far away to see any sort of effect. The only ones who wold remember are the people who were affected most by the event. So, Mister Weasley and anyone who physically saw him open the box." Albus was clearly in his element, and it was strange to see him teach when I'd never had him personally as a professor. He fell into the role quite naturally.

"How did it feel?" Nymphadora asked Weasley curiously, peering at him intently.

"Honestly, if Professor Dumbledore hadn't pointed it out, I never would have noticed," Weasley confessed. "I don't think anyone else on that trip knows anything strange at all happened."

"The human brain is very skilled at protecting itself," Albus lectured. "And memories are fragile, ephemeral things. You didn't notice anything wrong because from your perspective, there  _was_  nothing wrong."

"I'm still not sure I understand," Black said, once more revealing his complete and utter ineptitude.

Albus let out a long-suffering sigh. "It's a very complicated bit of magical theory, Sirius. I can explain later in more detail, if you wish, but for now we really must be getting on-"

"But  _how_  exactly did these two realities merge? Did they need to merge? How long could they have been sustained separately?" Minerva clearly had a million more questions, but managed to just barely contain her scholarly excitement. I had to admit, I was still somewhat skeptical of the explanation myself. It seemed to me that multiple other explanations could account for the discrepancy — explanations much simpler than  _reality itself splitting in two_. Wait, why did that sound familiar?

"Likely there was one reality which was slightly more 'real' than the other. This reality would have formed the base of the merged realities, while certain details would be influenced heavily by the other. Hence why Mister Weasley does not think he managed to open the box, but has memories as if he did." Albus fell silent for a moment, thinking deeply. "As for whether they  _needed_  to merge… I believe that after a sufficient amount of time, the two realities would become unstable. I confess I do not know much about the subject—" and of course Albus' 'not much' would be more than most of my students knew about potions "—but perhaps the two realities would eventually start collapsing into each other, whether or not they were capable of merging again. I truly have no idea how long this would take. We are talking about events here that break the fundamentals of the universe — there's no reason to even think they would operate on human timescales."

None of us had any idea what to make of his answer, so we all fell into silent contemplation. Moody looked like he didn't particularly care about esoteric magical theory, while Minerva was obviously enthralled. Black wore the same look of confusion he'd been wearing throughout, but Lupin looked frighteningly thoughtful.

Thankfully, Albus decided to continue the meeting. Moody shared an update on the prophecy situation, namely that there were no updates. Black whined that he didn't get to do anything. Arthur regaled us with tales of the Ministry's frightening incompetence. And  _finally_ as the meeting was wrapping up, I informed Albus that I would need to peruse the Black library. Albus paused for a long moment while he stared at me in consideration, but soon enough smiled and granted me permission.

Black was, on one hand, pissed that Albus was so willing to give me access to Black family heirlooms, and on the other, hated those said heirlooms so much that he almost didn't care what happened to them. He still threw a hissy fit about it, until Lupin managed to distract him with some biscuits.

I ignored him, and made my way upstairs while everyone engaged in tedious small talk. Black looked like he wanted to follow me, but Lupin pulled him back into distraction, giving me a heavy look.

The library was dark and quiet when I entered, the silence a balm on my soul after a long meeting. The torches flickered on when I entered, a magical touch that still made me smile.

Progress examining the books was slower than I liked, since there were so many that I hadn't read that were clearly dark. Only a few, however, were truly  _evil_  enough to contain what I was looking for.

I'd finally found the correct aisle when Black's decrepit elf appeared around the corner. He stared at me in silent condemnation with wide, hateful eyes.

"I have permission to be here," I informed him haughtily, angry at myself for feeling so defensive.

"The traitor says he has permission," the elf muttered to himself. "But permission to do what? To  _throw away_  more of Mistress's beautiful books?"

"I'm not going to harm them," I said with an eye-roll. "I'm looking something up."

"The traitor is speaking to me," the elf continued. I decided that was my cue to ignore him, and returned to perusing the shelf. "The traitor walks around this house as if he never left," I heard the elf say behind my back. "The traitor walks tall."

The elf was making me extremely uncomfortable, but thankfully he fell silent, even though he didn't actually leave. I finally found the correct book, and learned the word  _horcrux_.

A fragment of one's soul, left in an object. A fragment that couldn't be destroyed by any but the most powerful tools. A fragment that slowly seeped from its container, infecting everything around it.

A fragment that could, in theory, be stored in a living being, twisting the soul it attached to.

Was Harry Potter a fucking  _horcrux_!?

* * *

Thankfully, the book had also contained a spell for detecting horcruxes, which was apparently necessary in order to tell if the creation ritual had worked successfully. Supposedly, a person would feel no different after creating a horcrux, since the two pieces of the person's soul would still be linked. It seemed impossible to me that a person wouldn't be able to tell after  _splitting their soul in two_ , but since I hadn't done it I could hardly comment.

I prowled through the castle, needing some time to collect my thoughts before bed. My mind was racing; twisting and turning in a million possible directions. It was inevitable, then, that I should bump into a student out of bounds and be forcibly ejected from my reverie.

It seemed rather less inevitable that that student should be Hermione Granger.

"Miss Granger," I said, too distracted to summon up my usual vitriol. "Out for a midnight stroll?" It was just after midnight, in fact, and we were currently in a quiet, out of the way corridor on the fourth floor. Her face looked paler than normal in the poor lighting, but her hair was as excessively spirited as usual.

"Er…" she looked rather embarrassed to be caught. "Just, ah, finishing up some rounds." She was a phenomenally bad liar, although the pitiful attempt was entertaining.

"Fridays are for seventh-year prefects," I noted dryly. In practice, hardly any of them actually completed their rounds, since they were generally too busy making poor choices. The idea was that seventh-years would be much busier with homework on weeknights, and so Friday rounds would be easier on them. The only prefects who ever actually did their rounds, however, were the fifth-years, and older students who were especially uptight. It would become increasingly obvious to the new prefects as they settled into their duties that rounds were the most pointless of all, and the only reason anyone bothered to keep them going was because they were tradition.

Miss Granger, who no doubt already knew that Fridays were covered by seventh-years, looking exceedingly awkward. "Oh right, I forgot," she attempted, in an even more embarrassing lie than her previous one.

I raised an eyebrow at her, but I suppose the effect was lost in the poor lighting, because she just stared at me, her face slowly turning pink. And wasn't this just a perfect opportunity?

I glanced around down the corridor behind us and ahead of us; no one in sight. I much preferred no one overheard this conversation, because I actually thought the children were doing something useful. "Rot any toes lately?" I finally asked her, and the pink on her face deepened into red. I'd been dying to know more about Potter's little club for ages now, but it was surprisingly hard to find information.

Well, perhaps not  _completely_  surprising.

"If you're asking that, then probably yes," Miss Granger admitted.

"On the contrary, I overheard a few of your conspirators discussing your little contract after the first Hogsmeade visit," I said casually.

Granger looked pained. "I felt rotting their toes off was a little harsh a punishment for something done by accident. I suppose I overestimated how careful they would be." So she had left the loophole on purpose. Perhaps I had underestimated her.

"People will always disappoint you," I told her, and realised belatedly that she would probably interpret that statement as more revealing than I'd meant it. I really needed to stop interacting with students after Order meetings, especially ones held after a long week.

"I guess so," Granger said. "Although I might have actually also jinxed the contract so that anyone who was overheard would get a horrible rash in their, er, private areas."

Somehow, the girl continued to surprise me. "Did you tell them this before they signed it?" I asked, taken aback. I had  _definitely_ underestimated her.

"Well, no." She looked less repentant that I would expect from someone who was a model student and a  _prefect_. "I figured that they would be too busy discussing their mysterious rash to spread any more secrets," she finished with a haughty sniff.

I… Quite frankly, I was astounded. Had she always been this vindictive? And her Charms work must be extraordinary to be able to craft such a jinx. After years of revelling in my superior intelligence, I found myself in the unpleasant position of questioning whether I would have been capable of such a thing at her age.

Although I'd never tried anything of the sort. I'd been too busy with potions and crafting curses. Doubtless if I'd ever bothered with charms, I would have been able to achieve a similar result. Actually, speaking of curses…

"Why did you choose a toe-rotting curse?" I asked her.

The redness on her face was fading, although she still looked embarrassed. "I read something somewhere that said toes were the most difficult appendages to replace," she admitted, although she looked fairly proud of herself at the same time. After so long keeping everything a secret, I had an inkling that she was desperate to show off. I know I would have been.

"How did you jinx the contract?" I asked curiously. "Magical contracts normally prevent spells being cast on them."

"They prevent spells being cast on the parchment," she said with barely contained excitement. "So I jinxed the ink. I simply made sure everyone used my quill to sign."

"Ah, of course," I breathed out. "For future reference, most adults know to use their own quill to sign."

"How do they know?" Miss Granger demanded. "We don't have any classes like that here. How do people learn?"

"From their parents, generally," I told her, with an idea of how well she would take that. Indeed, a scowl took over her face.

"Oh, of course, and no one cares what happens to muggle-borns then? Just let them get taken advantage of while all the purebloods go around laughing about it?"

"Yes," I said simply, and her face contorted in rage.

"How is that fair!?" she demanded. "I spend all of my free time in the library and if I hadn't come across that single book that happened to have a  _single_  chapter on magical contracts, I never would have known any of this! And all you purebloods are practically  _handed_  this knowledge on a silver platter!" She took a deep, shaky breath, and somehow managed to calm herself down somewhat. She glanced over at me nervously, awaiting what she thought would be a punishment. Normally, I would take points or hand out a detention, and perhaps throw in a cruel insult or two, but I'd spent my entire life thinking the  _exact same thing_  and to hear it from a student who reminded me almost of myself was too much to sweep under the carpet. I could tell I was about to be uncomfortably honest, and knew I wouldn't be able to stop the coming words even if I wanted to. Strange how I'd revealed so much more to my students recently than I'd ever revealed to the Dark Lord and his followers.

"I'm not a pureblood," I told her, and her mouth fell open in surprise. "My father was a Muggle and my mother stayed away from magic. I fought my way through seven years in Slytherin riding on the coattails of purebloods who never even realised what they'd been given. They breezed through life, getting by on their family's connections and knowledge, and judged the rest of us for not finding life as easy as them."

Miss Granger gaped at me, clearly at a loss for words. "But… but what can we  _do_  about it?" she finally managed to ask.

"Nothing," I told her. "We can do nothing."

"No!" she shouted, anger exploding from her in surprising fury. "I refuse to believe that! Just because it isn't easy or obvious doesn't mean there isn't a solution! I refuse to live in a world that systematically oppresses over half its population! Do you  _know_  what I sacrificed to be here?" Her voice held a desperate passion that sounded more mature than anything I'd heard from my students previously. She was glaring at me intensely, although I knew the glare wasn't aimed at me in particular. "I could have gone to university!" she continued. "Become a scientist or a doctor! Instead, I chose to learn  _magic_ , because once you know about magic, what other choice do you have? And now you're telling me that I just have to  _accept_  that nothing I do will ever be good enough? That I'll— that I'll have to work twice as hard to be half as successful?" I hadn't said anything like that, actually, but I appreciated the sentiment, even as I felt increasingly uncomfortable with her shouting. "I  _refuse_  to just lie down and take this sort of bigoted—"

"Hermione?" a painfully familiar voice said, cutting into her tirade. On one hand, I welcomed the interruption, but on the other…

Potter walked down the hallway towards us, a look of mild surprise on his face. "Well, isn't this an interesting pairing," he said, glancing back and forth between us. Miss Granger had turned to face him, panting heavily, cheeks once more flushed.

"Are you alright, Hermione?" he asked her, looking her up and down in concern.

"I'm fine," she gritted out.

"Only, I heard some of what you were saying…" There was a strange glint in his eye, and I was struck suddenly by the realisation that Potter was  _enjoying_ this.

"I'm  _fine_ ," she repeated harshly. Miss Granger's hands were clenched into tight fists.

There was a short pause. "You know, I grew up with Muggles," the boy said quietly, staring at her rather intensely.

"Oh Harry," she said softly, and some of her anger melted away. "I know, I'm sorry."

"You're not the only one who's had to fight for every bit of knowledge they had," Potter continued, still staring at her. I felt suddenly like I was intruding on an intimate moment, a thought which was almost as uncomfortable as the intrusion itself. "Of course," the boy said, turning towards me suddenly. "You understand, don't you, professor?"

"I— Yes," I admitted, my discomfort increasing. Miss Granger looked at me in surprise, and I returned her stare evenly.

"You really want to change things, Hermione?" Potter asked her, and I felt a momentary pang of relief as their attention was once more diverted away from me.

"Yes, I do," Miss Granger said, with the confidence of youth colouring her tone.

"It's not just  _Voldemort_  and his minions that are the problem though. It's the Ministry, and the papers, and even Hogwarts. It's the entire system that's faulty," the boy pointed out. Something about the boy's statement was sitting poorly with me, but every time I tried to focus on it, my thoughts scattered. "What are you going to do, Hermione? You can't change the whole system."

"Then fine!" Granger said, far too loudly. "Screw the system! I'll burn the whole thing to the ground and start again!" She looked embarrassed at her outburst as soon as she finished, and brace herself for  _something_.

Instead, Potter nodded at Granger approvingly, his lips quirked in a small smile. "Okay," he said.

"Okay?" Granger repeated numbly.

"Okay," he said again, and his smile broadened, although it was more sinister than I was used to seeing on Potter's face. "I think we can make that happen."

"Oh  _Harry_ ," Granger said, and threw her arms around him. I looked away awkwardly as she hugged him tightly for far longer than I could ever remember anyone hugging me.

Not that it mattered, how long I'd been hugged. Merlin, I needed to pull myself together.

"Professor?" Potter addressed me, looking over Granger's shoulder. "What do you think?"

"What do I think about what?" I said, horrified that I was being dragged further into this. There was something about the atmosphere, there in that corridor, that made me feel that something  _important_  was happening. As if the three of us were now entangled in something even bigger than any of us realised.

"Will you help us?" Potter blew a strand of Granger's hair out of his face. "I've always thought you were  _wasted_  on pureblood supremacy."

I stared at Potter like a rabbit might stare at a wolf. "I have far too many obligations taking up my time already," I replied stiffly.

"And if you didn't? If you were somehow free of your other obligations?" Potter still held Granger tightly, and as such I couldn't see her expression, even though at that moment I desperately wanted to. Did she too notice the calculating tone of Potter's voice?

"Perhaps," I answered neutrally, my adrenaline pumping in some strange danger response.

"Excellent." Potter seemed pleased, despite my non-commitance. Granger wriggled partially out of his grasp and turned to look at me, one of his arms still around her shoulders.

"You're the one who inspired me, professor," Granger pointed out reproachfully.

"Ten points from Gryffindor for being out after curfew," I said, in an attempt to regain some professorial distance from the students who were looking at me a little too intently for comfort. The laughably small amount of points had the opposite effect, however, and now Potter looked even more amused.

"Return to your common room immediately," I instructed forcefully, and then paused for a moment before turning away. "And Potter: tomorrow, two o'clock."

"Is that a detention or Occlumency practice?" I heard Granger hiss quietly behind me as I walked away, my superior hearing once more coming in handy.

"I think it's a mix of both, actually," Potter responded thoughtfully. "And I think I'm rather forward to it."

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, the Daily Prophet was delivered to an unsuspecting audience.

_WIZENGAMOT MEMBER FOUND DEAD IN HOME_ , the title read, followed by a picture of Amelia Woodward, the Wizengamot member in question. She had dark brown hair and a pointy nose, and she still looked almost exactly like she had when I'd known her almost twenty years ago.

She'd been a friend of Lily's, albeit not an especially close one. Woodward had been the year above us, and a Ravenclaw, which meant they really only ever interacted in the library. I vaguely remember them working on some sort of Runes project together, although I had no idea what happened with it. That would have been around the time Lily stopped talking to me.

I scanned the article quickly, and found that the Ministry was blaming the attack on  _werewolves_  (although it wasn't the full moon). The Ministry was claiming that the attack was perpetrated by werewolf rights activists who were disgruntled by the Ministry's passing of the new werewolf legislation.

What the prophet failed to mention, of course, was that Woodward had voted  _against_ the legislation. It was easy to remember, given that she was one of the few who had.

"Have you seen this nonsense?" Minerva asked, shaking her paper angrily.

"Obviously," I drawled, gesturing pointedly to my own copy, which was laid out in front of me.

Minerva ignored my insolence, too angry to be distracted by my typical remarks. "This is absurd!" She was speaking too loudly, but the staff table was mostly empty. Filius was here, as was Burbage, but the rest of the table was empty due to the early hour. I was on breakfast duty starting today, and thus was required to be here far too early given how late I'd been up. "How could they  _possibly_  blame her death on werewolves? Are they truly so determined to stick their heads in the sand that they'll cast blame on anyone they can find?"

"Of course they are," I stated, and Minerva must have realised how ridiculous her statement was, for she sighed and settled the paper down on the table.

"Miss Woodward was such a nice girl," she said wistfully. "It was such a tragedy, what happened to her family."

Ah yes. Her parents had been murdered during the first war. Many families that openly opposed the Dark Lord had faced similar fates. Potter's parents had been murdered quite brutally after they were instrumental in passing some legislation making it illegal to be a Death Eater. Even Lily's parents had been murdered, despite being Muggles. Lily had made quite a few enemies in school, and Mr and Mrs Evans had made perfect targets to "remind" Albus that he couldn't protect everyone.

Those few years after leaving school had been very difficult, and I think not just for me. One moment we'd been children, the next— cast out into a war that we hadn't started, that had been brewing since before any of us were even born. We'd been trained up as soldiers, and forced to pick a side.

I'd spent most of my time working on my Potions mastery. The Dark Lord had arranged it. He'd been one of the first people who truly believed I could be someone great. He'd practically insisted, in fact. He told me he refused to squander my talents on skirmishes on the front line. I'd stayed out of almost all of the fighting during those years, and instead had spent them holed up in a windowless lab brewing and experimenting almost nonstop.

Part of the reason for my isolation during that time was refusal to face what was happening in the outside world. As long as I never left, I could pretend none of it was happening. I could pretend that I was just another normal masters student, hoping to get my degree so that I could become a potions researcher and invent great things. Instead of a lackey for a Dark Lord who wanted to use my skills for the further subjugation of over half the country.

I stared down at Amelia Woodward's smiling face, and part of me felt like that boy again. The one who'd been angry and frightened, and so desperately lonely he'd do anything for attention.

If Lily were still alive, she would have cried. I, however, would shed no tears for this death.

I ate my breakfast mechanically, my mind still distracted by the tragedy in the paper. Afterwards, I was too wound up to spend the morning grading as I had planned. Instead, I found myself wandering the castle, vaguely keeping an eye out for student misbehaviour.

Truthfully, I missed Lily. I missed her powerfully, even though she had been long gone even before her death. I'd had many friends in Slytherin, and later even a few amongst the Death Eaters, but never had I a friend as true and honest as she had been. She'd thought me brilliant, and believed whole-heartedly that I could do anything, even defy the expectations of my house.

That day I'd disappointed her and proved her wrong had been the worst day of my life. She'd  _believed_  in me, and I'd failed her.

I was in such a state I didn't even notice the girl until I'd practically bumped into her. Or rather— until  _she'd_  almost bumped into  _me_.

"Miss Lovegood?" I reflexively said, taking in her flushed face and short breaths.

"Oh— terribly sorry, professor," she panted, although she was taking advantage of no longer running to catch her breath.

"Why were you running through the corridors?" I asked, although part of me feared her answer. At least it would undoubtedly prove interesting.

"I was— Oh, just playing a game with my housemates," she said distantly, with a small smile. Ah. Interesting, although not in the way I'd expected.

"Your housemates?" I asked unnecessarily. "I thought you were—" getting along with them, although I felt suddenly too awkward to finish my sentence. Merlin, I had to stop meeting students like this. Much better to remain in the classroom, where I could be the strict disciplinarian everyone hated. This forced intimacy that came from personal conversations in quiet corridors was almost too much to bear.

"The ones in my year have been very nice, yes," Miss Lovegood assured me with a smile. "But, well, the older ones still like to play, you see."

I did see, unfortunately. "Really now," I commented darkly. "And what exactly do they like to play?"

Miss Lovegood looked embarrassed for the first time I'd ever seen. Her normally dreamy expression had disappeared, replaced by a slightly pinched look. I remembered suddenly that she was in fact related to the  _Malfoys_ , albeit not especially closely. Her mother was Lucius' second cousin, I thought.

"Sometimes they play hide and seek with my things," she admitted, and looked down at her feet. She wasn't wearing shoes. One of her socks was neon pink, while the other one had green and yellow stripes.

"And sometimes they play  _tag_ , is that right?" I asked rhetorically, my tone darker than I'd intended. Miss Lovegood nodded slightly.

Filius had tried to do something about the bullying, but there was only so much he could actually do when evidence failed to emerge. The result was Miss Lovegood's word against her housemates, and there was only one of her and many of them. Perhaps now that her classmates were treating her better, things would change.

Miss Lovegood played with the ends of her hair nervously, and watched me warily. She had little flowers twisted throughout her hair, and her orange jumper was too large for her slight frame.

I sighed. "Shall I escort you to the library?" Madam Pince would tolerate no trouble-making, and Miss Lovegood was studious enough to enjoy a day spent reading.

"All right, professor," she said, her small smile returning to her face. "I had been meaning to look up the effects of reedmace on jittery junipers."

I had no idea what those were, but if Miss Lovegood could find her answers in the library, then good for her. Reedmace had almost no magical effect, although Muggles used it occasionally as a diuretic.

We walked in silence down to the first floor. I carefully didn't look at her, although I expected her to say something any second.

She didn't.

Finally, after what felt like an unbearably long time, we arrived at the entrance to the library. The girl looked up at me expectantly, and I had no idea what she wanted me to say.

"Be careful," I finally settled on, and cursed myself for being a trite and sentimental fool.

"I will, professor," she said cheerily, and turned to enter the library before pausing and glancing back at me. "You should know, you have an Umgubular Slashkilter."

"Thank you for informing me," I replied wearily, and she smiled sadly at me before disappearing into the library. I stared at the closed doors for a moment before turning around and finding myself face to face with Harry Potter.

"Hullo, professor," he said, with a too-wide smile. "What were you talking to Luna about?"

"Nothing of importance," I replied warily, wondering why I'd always felt so on edge around the boy lately.  _Infected_ , the book had said. That's what horcruxes did. They  _infected_  those around them.

"I've never seen you so nice to a student before," he practically accused, despite his pleasant tone and the smile still on his face.

"Miss Lovegood is an exceptional student," I said stiffly. Was he accusing me of impropriety? The very idea was absurd.

"Is she?" he responded thoughtfully. "Isn't that interesting."

I had no idea what to make of that. "Perhaps," I said, and I kept my tone carefully neutral.

Potter gazed up at me, a sudden coy smile on his face. The boy was almost a foot shorter than me, having yet to reach his growth spurt, but the elder Potter had been fairly tall, so—

I realised suddenly that Potter didn't look as much like his father as I'd always thought. His nose was too pointy, perhaps his cheekbones were too sharp. Had he always looked like this? I could have sworn—

"What did you want to see me about this afternoon?" Potter asked, interrupting my thoughts.

Our location was hardly private. "You'll find out  _this afternoon_ ," I told him, since I didn't see anyone around. I was hardly about to discuss the real reason in the corridors, but I supposed that answer was safe enough.

"Or I could find out now," Potter said cheerily.

I raised an eyebrow at him, and he seemed to appreciate the gesture.

"Why wait until two o'clock? You're free; I'm free; let's go  _right now_."

I couldn't argue with that. "Very well," I responded, and began walking stiffly towards my office. Potter walked next to me, humming quietly to himself. The tune sounded vaguely familiar, but I knew there was no hope of me placing it.

I silently opened the door to my classroom, and held it while the boy walked inside. I stalked over to my desk and sat down in it heavily, staring blankly ahead of me for a moment before I felt sufficiently recovered to glance over at Potter.

"Sir?" he asked politely, lips quirked.

"I'm going to perform a small spell on you to test a hypothesis I have," I informed him, and he nodded. He sat on a desk in the front row, gently kicking his feet. He looked childish, in that moment, and I wondered what he was thinking. I sat up in my chair and raised my wand and waved it carefully.

The boy briefly glowed silver, a faint light that only I could see. The test came back positive. Of course it did.

"Potter…" I said, very slowly, staring at the boy. He watched me in mild bemusement as I stood up, and leaned forward with my hands braced on the desk, wand still clutched tightly in my fingers.

"Yes, sir?" he responded, with an air of cheek and polite puzzlement.

"Have you ever heard of a horcrux?" I asked, and I felt the atmosphere change as soon as the word left my lips. The polite, bemused expression fell from his face, only to be replaced by a delighted smirk.

"My, Severus," he said, and I felt a chill go down my spine. "You  _have_  been a naughty boy, haven't you." And all of a sudden, I felt like a fog in my mind had been lifted. Of  _course_. The answer was obvious.

For the second time in my life, my heart broke. I felt like crying and screaming and throwing something at the entire world. I felt nauseous and short of breath, like I'd run too far on too little sustenance. Everything I'd done, everything I'd worked for, was all completely  _pointless_. For four years I'd watched the boy, protecting him and saving him and doing everything in my power to keep him alive. I'd promised Lily, I'd promised Albus, and now I'd failed them both. I felt keenly the pain of Lily's loss all over again.

And as I stared at that boy, the one I'd failed so thoroughly, all I could think of was how his words sounded exactly like Dolores Umbridge.


	11. Harry Learns to be True to Himself

**** I stared at Potter, and the Dark Lord stared back. He wore Potter’s youthful face, and smiled Potter’s quiet smile, but there he was, nonetheless. The Dark Lord knew everything. He knew that I had promised myself to Dumbledore; that I had sworn to keep Potter safe. Was my life forfeit now? Did I truly care? I’d already failed everyone who mattered to me. What left did I have to live for? 

The man who’d murdered Lily was currently sitting in front of me, wearing the body of the son she’d died for. 

“Is Potter still alive?” was the first question I asked, my voice raspy and hoarse. The Dark Lord already knew my secrets; the time for discretion was over. I wanted this one peace before I died. 

I was still leaning on the desk, and my wrists were starting to hurt from the awkward position. 

The Dark Lord remained seated on a student desk in front of me, kicking his feet idly. “Yep,” he answered, popping his ‘p’ and shooting me a cheerful grin. How had I ever thought this was Potter? The quill, the potions lessons, the _Occlumency_ — how long had the boy been possessed for? At least a few weeks, possibly even over a month. Likely it hadn’t happened all at once. From what I knew of possession, it progressed in small bursts, as the possessor slowly gained influence and control over the possessed. Likely the Dark Lord had been whispering in Potter’s mind for quite a while now. Did this explain his strange behaviour? His own hatred of himself brought on by the Dark Lord’s hatred of him? What had changed? 

I closed my eyes, and let out a slow sigh. “Will he remain as such?” I asked, my eyes still closed. I couldn’t bear to look at the boy— the _Dark Lord_.

“Yes, actually,” he replied, clearly amused. “There’s no need to be so worried, Severus.”

“Isn’t there?” I finally opened my eyes, and the Dark Lord was looking at me pityingly. His expression was painfully familiar, and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t realised sooner. The headaches, of course. He had to have been messing with my mind, keeping me away from certain thought processes. The Dark Lord was skilled beyond belief at Legilimancy, and while I could protect against direct attacks, a subtle, quiet invasion from an unexpected source could have easily slipped past my defences. 

“How about I explain a few things to you, and then you can decide for yourself just how worried you need to be.” His smile had turned menacing again, but I nodded in defeat. What else could I do? I wanted answers more than anything. The fact that he was trying to convince me of anything suggested that perhaps he wasn’t planning on killing me. 

“I believe I shall start with… the beginning, perhaps.” The Dark Lord crossed his ankles, and rested his hands in his lap. His posture was straight, but he didn’t appear stiff or uncomfortable. I’d never seen _any_ Potter sit like that before, even James, who’d had a very formal upbringing. Or maybe _because_ he’d had a formal upbringing. The thought of James Potter left me very uncomfortable, when faced with his look-alike in front of me. 

“Our story starts fourteen years ago, when I entered the Potter home with the intent of murdering everyone inside.” The Dark Lord grinned, and I felt like throwing up. “I was going to use the death of our Harry here to create my final horcrux. I dispatched his parents with relative ease—“ At that, I flinched violently, and the Dark Lord’s lips twitched in amusement. He gave me a condescending look, but continued regardless. He’d never approved of my affection for her, and had been most disappointed with me when I asked him to let her live. He’d promised to do so regardless. He’d _promised_. “But when I attempted to kill the boy, the curse backfired on me instead. Isn’t that curious? Certainly a _strange_ bit of magic.

“That’s irrelevant, however. What’s important is what happened next: the ritual I’d prepared to create the horcrux worked, although certainly not as intended, and a piece of my soul got attached to _Potter_ , of all things.” 

I had suspected as much, although to hear it laid out plainly was disturbing. 

“That piece of soul, as you have guessed, is me. There I stayed, trapped and wrapped up inside Harry’s head, until who should come along but _me_. Only this version of me is… Different, shall we say. I’ll explain why in a moment, but for now it suffices to say that he is a pathetic shadow of who Lord Voldemort once was. Truly, an embarrassment to the name I’ve worked so hard to build.

“When he used Harry’s blood to resurrect himself, he broke a piece of the protection magic cast on Harry by his mother. It was this magic that was keeping me contained, but once that protection was breached — even just a little — I was able to break it down fully and claim full access to the boy’s soul.” 

Oh gods. My wrists were hurting quite a lot now, actually, but I welcomed the pain. It was the only thing that actually felt _real_ about any of this.

The Dark Lord heaved a sigh and pulled a foot up to tuck underneath his other leg. “I’ve made quite a lot of horcruxes, Severus, and for a while that was really quite excellent. Sure, each horcrux further reduced the size of my main soul and its magical power, but I was still able to _access_ all the other pieces. There were some slight changes in personality and power, but for the most part I barely even noticed.”

The Dark Lord paused, but I stayed quiet. What could I possibly say? He seemed content enough to talk, although I’d never seen the Dark Lord so casual before.

“It turns out that I made quite a grave oversight, however. I assumed that each horcrux would act independently. This is not the case. When Harry here destroyed my first horcrux at the end of his second year—“

Potter had _what?_

“—the connection between all my soul pieces was damaged. The main soul can no longer access the magical power residing in the other soul pieces, and likely has lost much of his personality as well. He is now operating at one _eighth_ the capacity that I used to.” The Dark Lord looked somehow gleeful about all this. Was he planning on moving against his other self? It would, perhaps, fit in with what I knew of the Dark Lord. He was never one to share _anything_.

“Is that a good thing?” I asked tiredly. 

“Most definitely. Because I have something he doesn’t have: access to a _whole_ , undamaged soul.”

“Potter’s soul?” My voice came out no louder than a whisper, but the Dark Lord heard me regardless.

“Yes, which is exactly why I need to keep dear Harry alive. If he dies, his soul goes with him, and I become nothing more than a husk of my former self.” The Dark Lord didn’t seem particularly concerned about the prospect. 

Perversely enough, I did feel some sense of relief at this. If he had said he was doing it out of _kindness_ or magnanimity, I would have instantly been suspicious. But the Dark Lord’s hunger for power was absolute, and was quite possibly the most constant thing in my life. If keeping Potter alive helped him achieve his goals, then Potter was safer than he’d ever been. 

“Does controlling Potter’s soul have any other effects?” I found myself asking, curiosity taking the better of me once my deep, mind-numbing fear had settled slightly. With so much of the soul the Dark Lord was using belonging to Potter, it was highly likely that the boy was affecting the Dark Lord just as the Dark Lord had affected him. While the Dark Lord was stronger in willpower and experience, the boy’s stubbornness was not to be overlooked. 

“Hmm. Perhaps. I have noticed a personality shift, but that could also be attributed to the body I’m now in. Hormones, you know.” The Dark Lord scrunched up his face in distaste, and, well, I _did_ know, actually. “Regardless, it doesn’t concern me. I am pleased with the person I am now, and believe I am more than capable of achieving my goals.” 

“Your goals?” I asked faintly, my fear rising again.

“World domination, of course. You knew this, Severus.” The Dark Lord tsked at me. 

I had so many questions that I had no idea where to start. I had a vague idea of the _what_ now, but no idea about the _why_. _Why_ hadn’t he just killed everyone and left? That’s what the other Dark Lord would have done. Perhaps this one truly was more stable. 

The Dark Lord sighed. “You clearly want to say something, so just let it out now. I don’t have the patience to keep drawing this out.”

“What are your plans for your counterpart? How do you intend to _achieve_ world domination? What are you doing with Miss Granger? _Why_ are you teaching the children Defence? Why are you telling me any of this? Are you going to kill me?” 

The Dark Lord’s laughter silenced me, and prevented further questioning. His laugh was familiar, but hearing it in Potter’s voice was bizarre.

I waited nervously for it to die down, but as soon as it slowed, he looked at me and started laughing again. 

Finally, he calmed himself. “I’m not going to _kill_ you, Severus. The fact that you’ve made a vow not to kill my body and signed a contract to keep my soul’s secrets means you’re actually quite useful to me. Besides, there’s no reason we can’t be on the same side. My plans are simple: I will re-absorb the other parts of my soul to gain their power, kill my other self as publicly as possible, and use the fame and goodwill of the public to stage a revolution to tear down the Ministry of Magic and replace it with something that I control. 

“Hermione’s actually the one who gave me the idea, you know,” the Dark Lord added. “She’s quite feisty, isn’t she. I think she’ll make a good second-in-command. Did you know last year she kidnapped and blackmailed a woman? And at only fifteen!” The Dark Lord had an almost dreamy expression on his face. I had _not_ known that, actually, although I was very interested to hear more. That would have been _before_ the horcrux’s influence. Which meant that Granger had, of her own free will, committed multiple legally and ethically dubious acts. All while crusading for house-elf rights and helping Potter through the tournament. Who _was_ this girl? “I believe she’ll be my new Bellatrix. Except saner, more competent, and quite possibly more vindictive.” 

“And _muggle-born_ ,” I pointed out, wondering what he would do with that. I was finally getting the answers I’d craved for so long, although it wasn’t anywhere near worth it. 

The Dark Lord smirked. “Ah yes, there is that. Tell me, Severus, do you know why I ran my campaign on pureblood supremacy last time?” 

I shook my head. I’d speculated endlessly, but never come to any serious conclusion. 

“There were a number of reasons: the main leader and advocate for muggle-borns, Albus Dumbledore, was a firm member of the establishment. He believed in working _within_ the system to effect slow and gradual change. The Minister at the time was a muggle-born. Muggle-borns were so grateful to escape the harsh realities of the war that they were perfectly willing to accept the Ministry’s rule. Not to mention, I was in Slytherin, surrounded by wealthy, angry purebloods. Grindewald had been defeated, but his supporters weren’t _gone_. They were simply waiting for a new leader to take his place. So I stepped in.”

“And now?” I asked, amazed at everything he was telling me. The _war_. He meant the second world war. Of course, muggle-borns at the time must have been thrilled to escape the threat of the bombs. They would have been able to use magic to keep themselves and their family safe. A muggle-born Minister, with Albus Dumbledore dominating the political realm— muggle-borns would have had firm control of the establishment. Albus had built much of his political platform on top of greater government regulation for various types of magic, a policy that muggle-borns often supported. The purebloods would have been furious at their success, and after the defeat of Grindelwald would have been desperate for someone else to lead them and fulfil the promises Grindelwald had failed at. 

Was it truly that simple? Was the Dark Lord’s entire crusade based on the fact that muggle-borns had been convenient targets? I knew so little of the Dark Lord’s history, that I had no way of determining the veracity of his statements. I supposed his current actions supported his words, however. He didn’t _seem_ to hold any ill-will against muggle-borns at all.

“And _now_ thanks to the efforts of my minions, the Ministry has been suppressing the rights of muggle-borns for over a decade. Not to mention half-breeds, werewolves, and magical creatures. They’re desperate for a change, and willing to do anything to get it. You heard Hermione; she’s ready to tear the entire system down. Do you think she’s the only one?

“Besides, Harry Potter is a Gryffindor, and a hero. I’ll get a much better reception from muggle-borns than I ever would trying to rally purebloods, especially with my less competent self running around.” 

“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked again, feeling nauseous. The Dark Lord was right. He had every advantage he could possibly have. How could he not succeed? 

And would it truly be so bad if he did?

“Because you need to know the basics if you’re going to actually be helpful,” the Dark Lord said, with a roll of his eyes that looked so _adolescent_ I almost laughed. “And because I think you’ll agree with what I’m doing. _And_ because I’m quite proud of myself, frankly. I think it’s an excellent scheme. Certainly better than anything my counterpart has come up with recently.”

“He killed Lucius’ peacocks,” I offered weakly.

The Dark Lord paused. “All of them?” 

“No, just two.” 

“Good. I think I’m going to serve the rest of them to Lucius for dinner.” 

This was the Dark Lord, I reminded myself sternly as I felt myself smile. The one who killed Lily. The one who took control of her son’s body and is now planning on taking over the world. And possibly make it a better place in the process. 

The Dark Lord smiled back, and I felt a sharp pain in my stomach. That would be the stress, most certainly. If I didn’t know better, I would assume he truly was a teenager, with his casual verbosity and easy smiles. 

“What should I call you?” I asked. Perhaps that would give me some indication of what he _wanted_ from me. 

“Ah. Well, I can hardly go by Voldemort anymore, which is probably for the best since I picked that name fifty years ago and it’s getting a bit _dated_ for me. And there’s no point in trying to disguise my identity or become someone else, since Harry Potter is already perfect for my plans. Actually, _professor_ ,” the Dark Lord said with a wicked smirk. “Why don’t you call me Harry?”

I most certainly did not want to do that. “In private, you mean?” I asked weakly.

“Mmm, for now, perhaps. You do need to keep up appearances, after all. But soon enough that won’t matter anymore.”

That was ominous. I swallowed my distaste, and managed to say “Very well… _Harry_.” The name felt disgusting on my lips, a parody of everything I’d once believed in. The Dark Lord seemed pleased with my discomfort, however, for he smiled at me. 

Calling him any variation of ‘master’ would have been fine — I’d been calling him ‘master’ as long as I’d known him. But calling him _Harry_ … A constant reminder of my own failures… 

“Well, I’m bored,” the Dark Lord said cheerily. “I’m going to leave you to whatever it is you do when you’re not around students.” 

Right now, all I wanted to do was sleep. It was almost time for lunch, but I wanted nothing more than to sink into my bed and sleep until all of this nonsense disappeared. 

The Dark Lord stood and gathered his belongings. _Potter’s_ belongings. The ratty book-bag he carried with him everywhere; the outer robe with Gryffindor piping that was almost too short for the boy. 

He walked over to the door and then turned back to look at me with a small smile. “And Severus…” he said, and I felt a chill go down my spine. 

“Yes?” I asked nervously. 

“Yes what?” the Dark Lord asked with a mocking tone.

I hated him furiously in that moment, and grimaced in distaste. “Yes, _Harry_?” I asked, my tone drenched in faux-politeness. 

His wand was in his hand faster than I could even process. “ _Crucio_ ,” he said softly, and the familiar pain wracked my body. I know that I screamed, but no sound came out. My nerves felt like they were on fire, and I fell ungracefully to the floor. If I hadn’t been under the torture curse, I might have noticed hitting my head on the desk, but as it was, I didn’t notice until the curse was lifted. I pushed myself into a kneeling position, my shoulders hunched and my head bowed low. 

“Don’t think your sins have gone unnoticed,” the Dark lord said quietly, and I almost couldn’t hear him over the panting of my breath. “I am well aware that the only reason I have your loyalty right now is chance. You were planning on betraying me for this _boy_.” 

There was nothing I could say that would help, and regardless, I couldn’t speak. 

“If you betray me again,” he continued, “you _will_ regret it. That I can promise you.” 

I almost laughed. I regretted so many things already. What was one more? 

The Dark Lord walked back over to me, and I could sense him standing above me.

“Oh Severus,” he said, crouching down next to me. He reached out and stroked my hair gently. “It so pains me to see you suffer. I hope you won’t give me any more reasons to hurt you.” 

I stared at the floor, and the Dark Lord gently pushed my hair back and healed the wound on my head. The relief was small compared to the residual pain from the Cruciatus, but his tender ministrations were making my head spin. I didn’t want him to touch me. I hated that some small part of me found comfort in his attentions. 

“Is this not everything you wanted? The Potter boy is safe, forever. I won’t ever let him die. You’ve fulfilled your vow. I will destroy my counterpart, improve the lives of the lower classes, see that the incompetent elite get everything they deserve— the world will be wondrous, Severus.” The Dark Lord sighed, his fingers still tangled in my hair. “I realise you don’t understand now, but you’ll see soon enough.” He pulled his hand away and stood up, and I listened to his footsteps as he walked to the door and exited the classroom.

I don’t know how long I sat there, staring blankly at the floor. Slowly, as I returned to awareness, I realised I was trembling. I held up my hand, and the tremors were obvious. 

I would need a nerve relaxant. I kept one in my desk, but in order to get it I’d have to stand up, which felt like an insurmountable task. 

Slowly, _slowly_ , I pulled myself into a standing position, leaning heavily on my desk. It took me a moment of standing there to catch my breath, but eventually I managed to pull open the drawer and retrieve the vial. 

The relief was instant once I drank it, although it didn’t cure the tremors entirely. I still felt sore, and physically fatigued, and the feeling of wanting to crawl into bed and sleep forever had only intensified. 

By the time I’d gathered myself enough to leave my classroom, lunch was almost over. The only other professor still there was Filius, but thankfully he didn’t try to make conversation as I sat and ate my soup. I kept my head bowed and avoided eye contact with everyone. I didn’t have the energy for any sort of social interaction. 

The Dark Lord wasn’t at lunch, or perhaps he’d already eaten and left. Was he in the Gryffindor tower? Doing homework with Granger, or chatting with Longbottom? Perhaps he’d gone back to the library, or was planning another session of his defence training. 

Oh gods. Was that what he was doing with the students? Building his next group of minions? His new inner circle, school children who’d been trained to hate the establishment. Umbridge was perfect for that. How could they not acknowledge the incompetency of the Ministry when it was staring them in the face every day? And teenagers were always so idealistic. 

As I was exiting the Great Hall, Draco caught up to me. I was walking quickly, and he had to practically jog to keep up.

“How are you doing, professor,” he said politely, and even though I could tell he was merely making conversation, I still felt a pang of unease that perhaps I was being too obvious in my discomfort. 

“Fine,” I replied stiffly, hoping he would get to the point quickly. I still had grading I needed to do, or perhaps a nap was in order. 

“Do you… Do you have a moment to talk?” he asked quietly, and I stopped short. Draco continued a few paces before realising I wasn’t moving, and spun to look back at me. “What?” he asked nervously. 

It was strange, how I’d managed to get so caught up with all the other nonsense going on in my life that I’d forgotten about Draco. The boy was under a tremendous amount of stress, with his family hosting the Dark Lord (the… other version…) and his father currently under so much pressure. Not to mention, whatever the boy had cooked up with Parkinson and possibly Nott, and of course the fact that I’d rescinded his prefect-ship. How long had it been since I’d had a conversation like this with one of my students? I used to give my Slytherins advice all the time, and yet in the past few weeks I couldn’t think of a single time I’d met with one privately. 

“Of course,” I said, and the boy relaxed and gave me a small smile. “Let’s move to my office.” My office, which had the added benefit of never having hosted Potter/the Dark Lord. 

We walked there in silence, and once we’d reached it I sank thankfully into my desk chair while Draco sat hesitantly in the chair across from me. 

“Well?” I asked tersely, although my tone was gentler than it had been previously. 

“I— Er—“

“Spit it out, boy.” Teenagers. Always so dramatic. 

“Why did you take my badge away?” Draco said in a rush, and turned bright red. 

“You were abusing the privilege,” I informed him dryly. His flustered embarrassment actually served to cheer me up a little. 

“I don’t— I don’t really care that much anyway,” the boy admitted, and I raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Really,” I commented sarcastically. Did Draco think I hadn’t noticed? His apathy had been painfully obvious.

“It was a lot of work all the time, and Granger was always getting on my case about doing _this_ or _that_ wrong, but just _all_ of the time, and Potter didn’t even care that I was a prefect and he’s not—“ 

The mention of Potter reminded me of the ache in my joints. I had a bottle of firewhiskey stashed in my sitting room. How early was too early to start drinking? 

“—I mean, on the train he said the professors were just using me to do all the boring jobs for them. He made _fun_ of me for being a prefect!”

Well, Potter had actually been correct. Otherwise what was the point of having them? And trust Draco to only want to be a prefect in order to make Potter jealous. Honestly, his fixation on the boy was absurd.

“Then you should be pleased I took your badge away,” I said pragmatically. The boy didn’t _look_ pleased.

“I just thought— Why doesn’t father care?” His voice came out in a petulant whine that made me want to transfigure his mouth shut. It was a feeling I was painfully familiar with.

“Your father is very busy at the moment,” I explained, knowing that my tone had turned condescending but unable to modulate it. 

“Buy _why?_ ” Draco whined, and I looked at him in disbelief. 

“Because the Dark Lord wills it,” I explained slowly, like one might to a very small child. The _other_ Dark Lord. The one who _hadn’t_ Crucio’ed me this morning. The one who wasn’t wearing Potter’s face and hugging Potter’s friends. 

Draco looked embarrassed, at least. “Is he in trouble?” the boy asked, in a small voice. 

It pained me to remember that Draco was just fifteen, and everything that entailed. For all that he acted like an overly entitled adult, I still managed to forget that he was nothing more than an overly entitled, emotionally vulnerable _teenager_.

I hesitated before answering, and Draco certainly noticed, his flushed face paling. “Of a sort,” I answered slowly. “Your father has experienced great success while the Dark Lord was… _away_. However, that also puts him in a potentially good position to further help the Dark Lord.” It would have been better for everyone if Draco had remained ignorant of his father’s and my situations, of the Dark Lord’s return even, but with the Dark Lord living at Malfoy Manor, that was most impossible. The boy was lucky he hadn’t been subjected to the Cruciatus curse. 

_Very lucky_ , I thought, as my nerves tingled. The Dark Lord could cast the Cruciatus like none other, and with access to additional magical power, his curse was truly legendary.

“Will he be okay?” Draco asked in a small voice, and it both infuriated and amazed me that he actually thought I was capable of answering that. 

“Perhaps,” I replied neutrally, and the boy nodded stiffly. 

“How are your studies faring?” I asked, in an attempt to steer the conversation to more neutral ground. 

The boy simply shrugged, to my eternal annoyance. 

“Have your transfiguration marks improved?” 

“I guess,” he replied, and I refrained from rolling my eyes. It was a simple yes or no question. Likely his answer meant that it was actually a no. 

“How are you and Miss Parkinson doing?” Another attempt at small talk, although this time with an ulterior motive. 

“Fine, I guess,” the boy replied, although he looked wary now. “Why do you want to know?”

“You were fighting quite a lot at the beginning of the semester. I was even hearing about it from other professors.” Thankfully their in-class fighting had died down recently. Perhaps they’d managed to resolve their differences like mature, independent adults. (Ha.)

“Oh, yeah. I guess we were.” The boy stared at me awkwardly, and I calmly me this gaze in silence, waiting for him to continue. After another awkward moment, he did. “I don’t know, we were just— dealing with a lot of stuff, right?” 

“Are you asking me?” I inquired snidely. 

Draco rolled his eyes at me. “We just had a rough summer, okay?” 

I had been around the manor a fair amount this past summer, but I couldn’t remember ever seeing Miss Parkinson there. Perhaps I would write to her mother, and see if she could comment on the situation. I wouldn’t mention the pregnancy. If Miss Parkinson wanted her mother to know, she could tell her herself.

Did Draco know? 

“And how is Miss Parkinson’s health?” I asked, testing the waters. Draco made an admirable effort, but he visibly tensed.

“Good. Why?” His words were a touch too accusing to be completely innocent.

“I saw her coughing the other day,” I said, and this time Draco was even more obvious in the way he relaxed. “Madam Pomfrey says there’s a cold going around.”

“Ugh,” the boy said, scrunching up his nose in distaste. “I don’t want to get sick.” Did he think anyone _did_? 

“Obviously,” I replied curtly, and he reddened again slightly. The boy desperately needed to learn better control over his reactions. 

There was a moment of silence as we both waited for the other person to say something. When it became clear that neither of us would, I kicked the boy out of my office and returned to my quarters. 

Almost two in the afternoon. It wasn’t the earliest I’d ever started drinking, I supposed. 

Since it was a Saturday, there was risk of being summoned by the Dark Lord. Still, that wouldn’t come until this evening. Was six hours enough time to get completely pissed and then sobered up? With a potion, it would only take half an hour, but would I even be able to remember to take it? 

Perhaps I wouldn’t get _entirely_ drunk then. I didn’t really deserve it, anyway. What was one little Crucio? 

The glass was full and in my hand before I even realised it, and I stared at the dark liquid for a moment before sighing and taking a small sip. It tasted like fire (unsurprisingly) and burned my already tender throat on the way down. 

Was this what I was reduced to? Drinking alone on a Saturday afternoon? I looked around my sitting room, taking in the overflowing bookshelves and the strange furniture left over from previous potions masters. There was a lamp in the corner that glowed in the dark, and a chair too small to ever be comfortable. The coffee table was completely obscured with various journals, and the desk in the corner was covered in a large pile of marking. Merlin but I had so much grading to do. Why was I drinking? What purpose could it possibly serve, other than to further ruin my day?

I finished my glass anyway and poured myself another, hating myself all the while. I felt icy and burning at the same time, and let’s not forget desperately tired. I had a lot to think about, and I wasn’t sure I was capable of processing everything.

The second glass disappeared as quickly as the first, and through the pleasant haze I started to feel alarmed. 

My glass was full again. Had it always been full? What number was this again? 

I tripped over the coffee table on my way to my favourite armchair, and spilled the entire glass over my stack of journals. I couldn’t remember what any of them were, so I supposed it didn’t matter. I swept the whole lot of them off the table and onto the floor. 

I poured myself another glass, and noticed the bottle was significantly more empty than it had been when I started. Had I really drunk that much? Well, some of it was on the floor, so that was fine. Maybe I’d spilled most of it.

Potter was _the Dark Lord_. The Dark Lord was _Potter_. I’d been dreaming about the Dark Lord for weeks now — was that the version that was living inside Potter? It seemed likely. Why was I dreaming about him?

What was Draco doing with Miss Parkinson? Had he gotten her pregnant? How in the goddamn fucking hell did that have anything to do with a fucking belfry? 

I stared at the pile of essays. I’d have to grade them eventually. I should have graded them _days_ ago but I’d been so fucking busy—

“God damn it,” I muttered as my hands shook, spilling some of the liquor from my glass. “Merlin fucking Jesus fucking stupid—“ I couldn’t hold the glass still. I tried to focus on keeping my hand steady, but it was hard to make my eyes focus through the blurry haze. 

“Maybe some tea,” I heard myself say. Did I want tea? Why would I want tea? 

“Or a biscuit, at least.” I didn’t need a fucking biscuit.

“For fuck’s sake, drink some fucking water!” I shouted, kicking at the coffee table. The glass fell out of my hand, spilling its contents onto the already wet pile of journals. I picked a journal up off the ground, soggy and limp in my hands, and started tearing it apart. Page by page, making sure every part of it was destroyed. And when I finished with the first one, I picked up another and started doing the same thing.

_Potter_ was the _Dark Lord_. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Who wanted me to call him _Harry_. I would never even call Potter, _Harry_ , and now I was using the boy’s name to refer to his mortal enemy. The one who killed Lily, the one who’d killed _so many_ people. 

Was this hell? Was this my punishment for sinning? I’d never been religious (and Muggle religion wasn’t very popular in the Wizarding World anyway), but my father had. Not that he was ever sober enough on a Sunday morning to go to church. He used to yell at my mother for being a sinner, and tell me I was going to get my soul taken by the devil if I followed in her wicked ways. It was hard to believe in a god who you were repeatedly told hated you for no reason that you could see. 

“Why did you fucking _marry her_?” I said out loud, as I picked up another journal. “No one was forcing you to marry her. You _knew_ she was a fucking witch. She _told_ you any child would likely be magical as well. It wasn’t her fucking fault you lost your fucking job you decrepit sack of shit, and it wasn’t _my fucking fault either_!” I threw the tattered remains on the journal on the ground, where it fell onto the pile with a pathetically small thump. 

That wouldn’t do. 

I felt tense and overly wired and something completely indescribable. Did I want to run a thousand kilometres? Or crawl into a hole somewhere and never leave? 

I staggered over to the wall and leaned heavily against it. This behaviour was unbecoming of someone of my stature, and more importantly, incredibly dangerous. I was a spy; I could be called on at any moment to report to the Dark Lord, and instead I was wallowing about in my own filth like an _animal_ when I needed to be _sharp_. My students needed me to keep them safe; to get them through this war with minimal casualties. Albus was _relying_ on me. I had an entire stack of essays to read that I hadn’t even started, and which I likely wouldn’t finish before the end of the weekend. And that was only _if_ I wasn’t summoned tonight. Not to mention my work decoding the diary, which was going much more slowly than I’d hoped.

Albus needed me to keep a clear head, and I was leaning against a wall because I couldn’t stand on my own. And instead of _doing_ anything about my problems, I was drinking myself into unconsciousness.

Unconsciousness sounded nice right about now, actually. 

The wall was frigid stone, and felt amazing against my face. I hated it. I wanted to tear the wall down stone by stone and grind the pieces into dust. I stroked the wall gently, and then harder, until I was digging my fingers into it. I was scratching my skin, and I could see blood drops welling up and falling to the ground like glistening red tears. I clenched my hand into a fist and punched the wall as hard as I could. The pain rang through my head like a bell, and I felt my knuckles break with a sweet relief I didn’t think I was worthy of. 

I sank to the ground, and leaned my back against the wall. My hand hurt. My head hurt. Nothing felt real, or tangible, or even worthy of my attention. What was a hand, really? What was the point? The Dark Lord had won. Why bother continuing? We had already failed. 

I don’t know how long I sat there, but after a while I distantly processed the sound of someone knocking on my door. I didn’t answer it. I wasn’t even sure I knew how to stand.

Eventually, the knocking stopped, and I closed my eyes in relief, and perhaps a hint of sorrow. 

But then, alas, the door opened, for what was my privacy worth anymore? When I couldn’t even fall apart in peace?

“Oh Severus,” I heard a voice say, and for a heart-stopping moment, I thought it was the Dark Lord.

When I opened my eyes, however, I saw Albus Dumbledore crouched in front of me. 

“I didn’t realise your knees were still capable of that,” I commented, and winced at how raspy my voice sounded.

“Dear Severus, you missed dinner,” Albus said. He sounded so _sad_. 

“No I didn’t,” I responded childishly. “I had firewhiskey.” With self-loathing and despair as the perfect accoutrements. 

Albus sighed, and pushed himself up into a standing position. “Where do you keep your sobering potions?” he asked, and I stared at him mulishly in response. “I’ll just have a look around then, shall I?”

I watched as Albus wandered around the room, looking for where I might keep my medicinal potions. I honestly would have told him, but I couldn’t remember at the moment, and every time I tried to focus my thoughts in a single direction, I got a blinding headache.

“This place is quite the mess,” Albus commented, as he moved a stack of sodden journals off my armchair. Was that firewhiskey? I didn’t remember spilling any alcohol there. 

“Spring cleaning,” I responded shortly, and he glanced back over at me with long-suffering amusement.

“At least your wits haven’t left you entirely,” he said glibly. He rifled through the marking on my desk, giving me a _look_ at the pile, but thankfully moved on without comment. Marking was the last thing I wanted to think about at the moment. Actually, _anything_ was the last thing I wanted to think about. Maybe I would die of alcohol poisoning. That would solve my problems quite nicely, wouldn’t it?

He opened each drawer in turn, and I wondered if I should be upset about the privacy violation. Truly, I didn’t care. What secrets did I willingly keep from Albus anyway? He knew everything about me already. What did I have left to hide? What privacy did I have left? 

He pulled a small vial out of a drawer triumphantly. “Should I be worried that you keep a sobering potion in your desk, Severus?” he asked, even though he was the one who was fucking looking there, and stepped over a pile of paper shreds and rejoined me on the floor. He held the vial up for me, and with great effort I managed to grab and uncork it. It tasted bitter, but no worse than any other potion I’d brewed. 

“You’ll feel better soon enough,” Albus assured me, although I sincerely doubted it. Sobering potions tended to make hangovers worse. A headache reliever would help, but there was only so much it could do. Magic couldn’t fix everything, unfortunately. Not that it stopped me from trying.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Albus asked, and it amazed me that he thought the answer might be yes. 

I stared at him blankly, and he sighed again. 

“Anything, Severus? Will you tell me anything at all? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you resort to alcohol like this.” 

“There’s nothing to tell,” I said, and it was both almost the truth and the biggest lie I’d ever told. There was _so much_ I wanted to tell him, but most of it I couldn’t, and the rest felt too private to share. 

“Severus, please,” he said, and the pain in his voice stung. “Obviously something has happened.”

Harry Potter cast the torture curse on me, I wanted to say. No, that wasn’t right— the Dark Lord cast the Cruciatus. Except that wasn’t surprising at all, Albus wouldn’t even bat an eye. The Dark Lord cast the Cruciatus on me all the time. (Perhaps not that often, actually. Certainly less than most.)

“What do you want me to say?” I asked quietly. “Some days are harder than others.”

Albus leaned back in surprise at my words. “Have I failed you, my boy?” 

“Of course not,” I muttered. “I’m perfectly fine. What’s a bit of drinking on a Saturday afternoon? Practically nothing. You should have seen Lucius last weekend. He was completely hammered over the death of a couple of peacocks.”

“Then you won’t mind having dinner with Dolores again?” Albus said mischievously, and even though I wanted to hit him, mischievousness was much better than the tender concern he’d displayed before. Of course it was better. Why would I want his concern?

“May I at least know why I’m being _pimped out_?” 

“Don’t be gauche, Severus. Dolores is clearly planning something devious, and it is in our best interests to stay ahead of the game.” 

“Are you truly so worried about her?” 

“Dolores Umbridge has the entire might of the Ministry at her back,” Albus chided me. He was _chiding_ me. As if I were a teenager all over again. “There may come a day when she manages to exercise that power in such a way that I will not be able to protect this school.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked, reluctantly curious.

“She is trying to get me removed from my position. Some day she may succeed, and it will fall to you and the others to keep the students safe.” Albus’ tone was despairingly pragmatic. He was likely right, of course.

“Surely there are other ways to find information from her.” The woman was exhausting, and continually lying to her even more-so. She thought I was genuine in my affections, and was of the impression that we were getting increasingly serious. 

“None as effective,” Albus replied blithely.

“Very well,” I said quietly, the words drawn from me reluctantly. And Albus wondered why I drank? When my life was so far out of my own control? 

I was staring at the floor in front of me, but I saw Albus shift out of the corner of my eye. “That’s not all,” he said, and his hesitant tone set off warning bells in my head.

“What more do you want?” I asked, still not looking at him.

“You wound me, Severus. I would not ask so much of you if it were not truly necessary.”

His words were a cold comfort. It would always be necessary. 

“I must ask you again if you have noticed anything strange in regards to Harry,” Albus asked seriously. 

Oh gods. Yes, yes, of course I had. Why did Albus have to keep asking? How many times would I be forced to deny him? “The boy is fine,” I said stiffly. “He is just as arrogant as ever.” This was obviously untrue. Would Albus see what I was saying underneath my words?

“Severus, please. Put aside your misgivings about the boy for a moment. I am truly worried that he may be in danger.”

Was he in danger? I still didn’t know. Perhaps he was safest with the Dark Lord inhabiting him, but certainly not happy. What was absolute safety worth if the boy was never allowed to live? “I have noticed anything,” I said, and the disappointed look on Albus’ face killed me.

“I know you’re not telling me everything, Severus. But I will not press. I’m sure you have your reasons for keeping it from me.” 

It was amazing how Albus, even after all these years, still possessed the ability to make me feel as if I’d just committed a heinous crime. I felt absurdly guilty for denying him, especially considering that my hands were bound. There was nothing I could tell him, no matter how much I wanted to.

He stood up, leaving me sitting on the floor, and once more he reminded me horribly of the Dark Lord. What was it with my masters always so content to see me hurt? Was I truly worth so little to them?

As little as any chess piece is worth to the player, I thought coldly. 

“You should take a headache potion,” Albus informed me, as if I weren’t a potions master. “And don’t forget about that marking I see waiting over there.” 

With that cheerful reminder, he left. 

And I stayed, on the floor. 

 

 


	12. Severus Learns to Sober Up

**Chapter 12 — Severus Learns to Sober Up**

After a while, I started to notice the discomfort of sitting on the floor.

My back ached, and my joints were stiff. Part of that was likely left-over from the Cruciatus this morning. What was I doing? Sitting around, entertaining myself with my own self-pity? So what if Albus was more worried about the war than my personal happiness? What was one man's happiness, when weighed against so many lives?

So what if he needed me to seduce Umbridge? It was hardly worse than anything else I'd been tasked with, both in the name of the Dark Lord and in defeating him.

There was a good chance I would die before this war was over. But there were far worse reasons to die.

I pushed myself off the ground, using the wall to steady myself. Once I'd made it to my feet, I found myself more stable than I'd feared, although the headache had started to settle in. I carefully made my way over to my desk, and quickly retrieved the potion that would allow me to continue functioning. The headache reliever was probably the most valuable potion I'd ever learned, and that was  _including_  the Wolfsbane.

The soothing relief was instant, and I felt a sigh escape my lips.

"Mipsy," I called, after I'd spent a moment gathering myself.

She appeared with a small pop, and took in the state of the room in poorly-disguised horror.

"Can you clean this up?" I asked her, and she nodded furiously.

"Yes, Master Snape sir! Mipsy will do that!"

I grabbed the pile of essays and my marking quill and left my quarters for my office. I would work better there anyway.

* * *

The week managed to slip by without the world ending. I watched the Dark Lord like a hawk, but he truly didn't seem to be a danger to the students. He attended his classes, charmed his professors, and taught his fellow students Defence.

If the Dark Lord was attempting to build a power base here, he was likely succeeding. Despite the Ministry's attempts to discredit him, he was slowly regaining his popularity amongst the students. It helped that he hadn't made any recent public declarations against the Dark Lord. The  _other_  Dark Lord. Merlin, it was impossible to differentiate them in my mind. I would have to call one of them something different, but what? Even in my thoughts it felt dangerous to name the Dark Lord by his chosen name. Even  _thinking_  the word made me feel as if he would turn his attention to me. It felt  _dangerous_.

It didn't help, of course, that the Dark Lord was staring at me.

It was my Thursday afternoon potions class, and the Dark Lord was staring at me over his potion, which was currently simmering. His potion was perfect, although I expected nothing less. Certainly Potter's grades wouldn't be hurt by his  _absence_. Hopefully the boy was still absorbing something of his surroundings, wherever he was. Given what I knew of possession, it was highly probably that the boy was still aware of what his body was doing. Perhaps he would even learn something.

I was ahead on my marking, so I was using the time to further examine Bane's diary. It was going more slowly than I'd hoped, however, especially given what a distraction having the Dark Lord in my class was turning out to be.

Monday hadn't been so bad, since the students were using the whole time to brew, but today I'd had to  _lecture_. While I most likely surpassed the Dark Lord in potions knowledge, he was still an extremely clever and well-learned man, and teaching him had been surprisingly embarrassing. It had been a long time since I'd been so nervous giving a lecture, and the Dark Lord's coy smirk throughout hadn't helped. I'd managed to avoid making eye contact with him, but I could  _feel_  his presence. Hopefully no one had noticed my embarrassment. This whole affair was surprisingly humiliating.

"Get back to work, Brown," I called out, and a blushing Lavender Brown turned away from where she had been flicking surreptitiously through a magazine and back to her potion. Truthfully, this stage of the potion involved a lot of sitting around, and it wasn't surprising that she'd turned to other entertainment. However, she wasn't a good enough potions student to let herself get distracted. Not to mention, shouting at her had made me feel a little better.

The Dark Lord was still staring at me when I looked back towards him. The steam from the cauldrons, especially prevalent in the cold dungeon air, turned his form hazy and indistinct. He looked like he might be a ghost, or a dream perhaps.

Miss Granger nudged him, and he turned towards her with an indulgent smile. What  _was_  that? I'd never seen the Dark Lord so  _friendly_  towards anyone before. Merlin, he'd let her  _hug_  him. Was it Potter's soul affecting his personality? Or was he truly willing to go to such lengths to ensure her loyalty?

It seemed likely to be a mixture of both, I supposed. While Harry Potter himself could indeed inspire some sort of rebellion (assuming the Dark Lord played his hand carefully enough), having Granger on his side would lend an air of respectability to the whole thing. Not only was Granger actually a muggle-born, which would help convince others he was serious, but she was also known for being completely beholden to the rules. (Somewhat ironically, considering what I'd recently learned of her.) But if even  _she_  was advocating for overthrowing the Ministry, the other students may take him more seriously.

With a strong following in Hogwarts, after graduation he would be much better poised to go out into the world and spread his message. Hogwarts was a rather elite school, and many who graduated from here went on to work in the Ministry. The Dark Lord was well-positioned to get many of his own followers into strategic positions.

It would all be vastly difficult, of course. To inspire so much loyalty in his followers that they stayed true to his cause for years and years… It was nothing he hadn't done before, but would it work again on such a different group of people? He had so many advantages this time, but the idea still seemed ludicrous. To think that one person could have such an effect on the entire world…

But again, that was rather what the Dark Lord was known for.

I was thinking myself in circles. I'd been debating this topic over and over with myself since Saturday, and it wasn't getting me anywhere. I had too much to worry about in the short term to be debating the long term. Especially given how many things were still uncertain.

And yet, every time I looked at the Dark Lord, I wondered if this was simply my new reality. To watch as the Dark Lord achieved success after success, reaching new heights he'd only ever dreamed of.

"Weasley, stop dithering and concentrate!" I shouted at the simpleton, watching as his face turned pale and then flushed. He glared at me and pointedly picked up his knife and started chopping ingredients. He was doing a hideous job, and likely his potion would turn out terribly.

I felt a lot better. I had better things to do than worry. Like stalk around the classroom, making disparaging remarks at everyone's potions. Potter's and Granger's were both excellent, and I mostly ignored them, except to squarely meet the Dark Lord's gaze for a painfully long moment.

He looked amused.

Thankfully, the class period finished without any hospitalisations necessary.

I was less thankful for the way the Dark Lord lingered after class, sending Miss Granger ahead without him.

Once the other students had cleared out, he closed the door and approached my desk, where I was seated in my usual chair.

"Yes,  _Harry_?" I said, gritting my teeth at the name. The Dark Lord smirked at me in response.

"I've got good news, Severus," he said cheerily. His demeanour reminded me eerily of Potter's after I'd promised to try to kill him for that ritual we did. And wasn't that a haunting though.

"Good news?" I repeated blankly. Whatever the Dark Lord had planned for me, I was sure it wasn't good.

"Well, good for one of us at least." The  _sixty plus year-old_   _man_  played with the straps on his bag while he grinned eagerly at me from his youthful face. Every part of this was disturbing. "I've finally thought of a way for you to start repaying me for your betrayal."

Oh gods. The fearful look must have shown on my face (and when had I become so  _obvious_?) for the Dark Lord actually  _laughed_  at me.

"Don't worry, Severus. I merely need you to brew some potions."

I didn't stop worrying. I sat still, tensed and waiting.

"Of course, they're highly dangerous and  _extremely_  illegal potions, but I'm sure you'll have fun regardless." The Dark Lord gave me Potter's most charming smile, which strangely enough I'd only ever seen on the elder Potter's face until this moment. Wasn't it funny how things worked out.

Still, brewing potions was preferable to many of the other things the Dark Lord could have asked (forced) me to do, no matter how illegal and dangerous they were. And maybe a little bit  _because_ they were illegal and dangerous.

"What potions?" I asked, reluctantly curious.

"While this body  _is_  very powerful, it lacks some of the protections my old body had. I have a couple rituals in mind that require some  _very_  tricky potions. I could brew them myself, but it's tedious and boring and I think a much better job for  _you_."

How delightful. Still, I found myself becoming interested against my will. While it was true that brewing could occasionally become very tedious indeed, I always found learning a new potion interesting, especially if it was tricky. I opened my mouth to give one of my usual sarcastic replies before I suddenly remembered just who I was talking to.

"Of course, Harry," I replied respectfully, mentally substituting "my lord" instead, and the Dark Lord's lips twitched in almost-laughter. What did he  _want_  from me? He behaved nothing like the more serpentine Dark Lord would in this situation, and he was much more casual than I was used to seeing. Quite frankly, it put me on edge. I had to keep reminding myself that he wasn't actually a teenager; wasn't actually Potter. It was difficult to all the time I'd had to get used to Potter's face.

"So here's a list of ingredients I'll need you to get," he said, and pulled a piece of parchment out of his bag. When he handed me the parchment, our fingers brushed. His skin was surprisingly cool.

I unfolded the list and scanned the ingredients. Dear Merlin. He hadn't been lying when he said these rituals were dark. Most of these ingredients were at least restricted, if not banned outright, and quite a few were morally questionable as well.

Some were downright horrendous.

"You want me to collect all these?" I asked, my face pale. This was… quite possibly more than I could handle. I'd done a lot for the Dark Lord, including some truly terrible things, but this was a line I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to cross. Not to mention, some of the creatures on this list could easily kill me.

The Dark Lord inspected me carefully. "I'll assist you in collecting them, of course."

I closed my eyes, and clenched the parchment tightly in my hands. "Thank you," I made myself say, and when I opened my eyes again the Dark Lord was staring quietly at me. He had a peculiar expression on his face, that was even more difficult to read since his face was currently  _Potter's_.

"Is the protection on Potter's body not sufficient?" I asked, desperately wanting to change the subject.

"From being a horcrux, you mean? I, ah, doubt it's still in effect. I'm not exactly a horcrux anymore, am I." The Dark Lord gave a small shrug, and it amazed me how quickly he'd relearned to be a teenager. Truly, truly remarkable. I also got the impression that he was lying, but the Dark Lord was an  _exceptional_ liar. Did he  _want_  me to think he was lying? What purpose could that possibly serve?

"When do you wish to go?" I asked, setting aside for the moment concerns over possible layers of deception.

"This weekend, I think," the Dark Lord replied, and he must have noticed my hesitation, for he raised his eyebrows and continued: "What, do you have something better to do?"

"Your  _other_  self will likely summon me this weekend," I warned.

He wrinkled his nose, a gesture so unlike the Dark Lord that for a moment I thought it might be Potter again. "Do you know when?"

"Likely Saturday evening," I hazarded a guess. "I expected to receive a summons last weekend but didn't, so this weekend seems very likely."

"So we'll go tomorrow evening, and then again on Sunday if we need to."

I hesitated again, and the Dark Lord let out an exasperated sigh. "What else could you possibly have? You were never this busy when you were younger."

"I have agreed to take Dolores Umbridge on a date," I said stiffly, and the Dark Lord gaped at me.

"Oh Severus, I had no idea you were so… desperate."

"It's a favour for the headmaster," I elaborated quickly. "He desires information about Umbridge's plans, and since she seems to favour me…"

"I was a dark lord and I'm not sure even I would stoop that low," the Dark Lord commented, a touch of awe in his voice.

"It's actually our second date," I further explained, appreciating his understanding for just how unfortunate this turn of events had been.

"Is it… serious?" he asked in horrified amusement. He seemed to get some joy from the situation, but I found myself appreciating his sympathy nonetheless.

"Of course not," I protested, and he looked embarrassingly skeptical.

"Do you want it to be?" he asked, and it took me a moment before I realised he was  _teasing_  me.

"Most assuredly not."

"So when's your date?" the Dark Lord asked gleefully.

"We're getting lunch on Sunday."

"Excellent. So Sunday evening is free then. Friday and Sunday it is. I'll be by your office tomorrow evening, and we start hunting."

I flinched at the word, knowing he wasn't joking. That list was… Rather intense.

"What time should I expect you?" I asked, reminding myself  _again_  to keep my tone polite and respectful.

"Eh, nine maybe," he tossed out carelessly. 'Nine maybe.' How delightful. "Anyway, I'm off. Have fun with your whatever it is you do." He waved at me dismissively and left the room.

"How charming," I muttered to myself, pulling my notes on the diary closer. I had work to do.

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, Minerva found me glaring at a piece of toast.

"You're here awfully early, aren't you, Severus?" she noted, settling herself into the chair next to mine and pulling a pot of tea over.

"Unfortunately," I replied stiffly, not looking up from my plate.

"Did that toast do something to offend you?" asked Minerva dryly, and I spared her a glare.

"Yes," I said curtly, and she laughed. Her laughter normally would have earned at least a smile from me, but I was too miserable to be distracted from my poor temper.

"I take it you didn't sleep well?" Minerva said, a smile still on her lips.

"No, I did not," was my reply. My discussion with the Dark Lord yesterday had invoked what were likely stress dreams. They held elements of nightmares, but they'd evoked more despair than fear. I hadn't been sleeping well since last weekend, but this was the first time I'd dreamt. Generally my Occlumency did a reasonable job at keeping any dreams away, mysterious dreams of the Dark Lord aside.

"Well, have some tea then," Minerva suggested, and poured me a cup. I took it reluctantly, but still held it to my lips for a moment to savour the scent before drinking. The first sip brought a wash of calm upon me, even managing to penetrate through my disgruntlement.

I let out a long sigh.

"Is that better?" asked Minerva in amusement.

"I suppose," I answered reluctantly, but she understood what I wasn't saying.

"So have you decided on a venue for your  _date_?" Minerva asked after a moment of blessed silence.

"Hell." I started tearing my toast into strips rather than eating it. After such poor sleep, my stomach wasn't settling properly this morning. I would need energy for my morning classes, however, so I was loathe to skip breakfast entirely. Perhaps I would bring some toast with me to eat after the first period. If I left breakfast early I would have time to get ahead on writing a surprise quiz for Monday. I would likely need it after this weekend.

"Oh, I've heard it's lovely this time of year," Minerva commented, and her sarcasm drew a reluctant smile from me.

"Do you have a better suggestion?" The tea was actually quite good, now that I was drinking it. My stomach was starting to feel a little calmer.

"I would suggest the Hog's Head, but perhaps that's too good for her." Minerva punctuated her words with a haughty sniff, and I snorted.

"As if I would ever take her anywhere that close to the castle."

"Somewhere in Diagon then?" she asked curiously, and I nodded.

"That's where we went for our last— where we went last time."

Minerva seemed amused at my almost-choice of words. "Where?"

"Al's," I reluctantly supplied. "I thought it was fitting, and since Albus was paying anyway…"

Minerva was impressed. "Well, I'm sure you made an excellent impression," she teased, and I scowled at her.

"Too good, if I'm being forced through this farce again."

"I'm sure Albus wouldn't ask if it weren't important," Minerva consoled me, although I wasn't sure why she thought that would cheer me up.

"I'm still not convinced this isn't simply another prank," I said darkly, and Minerva coughed out a laugh.

"He never would have been able to keep it a secret this long," she pointed out, and I sighed.

"You're likely correct."

My tea finished, I managed to force down some of my toast. It stuck unpleasantly in my throat, but I didn't think my stomach was prepared for jam.

A flurry of owls brought the paper down in front of me, and I gave it a critical eye as I poured myself more tea.

"At least the news doesn't look too bad today," Minerva commented, rifling through her own copy.

"Anything good?" I asked, although I wasn't really that interested.

"Some idiot enchanted a toilet seat and got stuck on it," she read.

"Hmm," I replied, slightly cheered.

There was a round of laughter from the Gryffindor table, and Minerva and I immediately looked over. Laughter at breakfast was never a good sign.

Thankfully, nothing was on fire. Instead, some students were crowded around Longbottom, who was holding up a remembrall with bright red smoke in it. It matched the red on his face.

"Your gran must think yer a right moron," Finnegan jeered, and Longbottom's blush deepened.

"You could use one yourself, Seamus," Mister Thomas pointed out. "You forgot three homework assignments in a row!"

"Oi, that was private!" Finnegan responded, turning just as red as Longbottom.

"Well you shouldn't tease Neville like that," Thomas chastised, and Finnegan moved away from Longbottom and back to his seat with a grumble.

"Thomas seems to have been a good choice," I murmured to Minerva, watching the drama with a critical eye.

"He really does," Minerva replied, a smile on her face. She'd always had something of a soft-spot for Longbottom, Merlin knew why. I supposed she had a thing for an underdog. Gryffindors were always like that.

"I think Mister Finnegan is feeling left behind, however," she added, and her smile faded as she turned her gaze towards Finnegan. "He's been spending more time with Mister Weasley, and seems to be acting out."

"I haven't noticed anything in my classes," I admitted. "Although they're always terrible, so perhaps I merely couldn't notice the difference." I struggled to remember Finnegan's behaviour in class, but truthfully I was usually distracted by Potter. Or lately, by the Dark Lord. It was rather difficult to focus on other things while in his threatening presence.

"He's been sassier than usual," she elaborated. "More back-talk, and of course he's been very bad at turning in homework recently. Filius mentioned something about it to me the other day, so I know it's not just my class."

"I shall have to pay more attention going forward," I said, and felt rather embarrassed that I hadn't  _already_  been paying more attention.

"Has he been turning in his homework promptly?" Minerva asked me, and that at least was a question I could answer.

"As promptly as ever," was my dry response. "The boy seems to be allergic to hard work." His grade suffered accordingly, but he was still passing. We would see if that was still the case after the quiz on Monday.

After my second cup of tea, I finally felt ready to head to my classroom. There was still forty-five minutes before classes were due to start, which would give me plenty of time to start writing the quiz.

On my way out of the Great Hall, I almost bumped into Luna Lovegood ( _again_ ).

"Good morning, Miss Lovegood," I said politely, and moved to go around her. She stepped with me, back into my path. I stopped short.

"Good morning, professor," she said, with an absent smile.

"Can I help you?" I asked, after another moment where she did not get out of my way.

"Yes!" she said, her smile becoming a little more genuine. "I have an idea for a potions project, but I'm worried it might be dangerous to experiment alone. I was wondering if you would be willing to oversee it?"

It wasn't often that students came to me with something like this (although Filius received similar requests quite often), and while I was hesitant to add more work to my already overflowing plate, I was pleased both at the fact that Miss Lovegood thought well enough of me to feel comfortable asking, and also that she hadn't decided to risk it and gotten hurt. Potions could be very dangerous, and that was really one of the biggest lessons I tried to impart upon students. Somehow, despite all the explosions, many of them still never learned it.

"I suppose I could find the time," I informed her graciously, and she beamed at me. I didn't want to admit it to myself (and it seemed that lately there were a great many things I didn't want to admit to myself), but her smile cheered me up at least as much as the second cup of tea had. Not the first cup, of course. But the second, certainly.

"Thank you!" she said in excitement. Her radish earrings seemed to jangle faster in response to her enthusiasm. "When are good times?"

"My posted hours are generally free. If a student comes with a question, I of course will need to deal with them, but my hours are not… popular." Even among my Slytherins, the students rarely took advantage of my office hours. This was actually more common amongst the faculty, although Miss Granger was very enthusiastic about visiting everyone's office hours except for mine, I'd heard. Not that I minded at all. My colleagues were welcome to her.

Although… given my recent discoveries, perhaps she wasn't entirely a lost cause.

"Okay!" Miss Lovegood enthused. And was that a hollowed-out  _mushroom cap_  around her finger? She skipped away before I could look closer, and even as I watched her leave, I saw her stop for a chat with a portrait.

Shaking my head slightly (slightly enough so that the students passing by wouldn't notice), I retreated to the dungeons for my first class of the day, feeling rather more prepared than I had a moment ago.

* * *

The Dark Lord was at my door at eight thirty seven that evening. He pushed it open without knocking, and distracted as I was with finishing the quiz, I wasn't paying close enough attention.

"Potter, have you—" I cut myself off and fell silent, staring at a bemused Dark Lord.

"Have I what, Severus?" he asked, letting the door slam behind him.

I hadn't had a drink all week, but I felt strongly that I needed one at that very moment. "My apologies, my—  _Harry_. Old habits." I was always worn out on Friday evenings. I couldn't believe I agreed to spend the whole evening collecting ingredients with the Dark Lord. This was madness.

Merlin's beard, but I was tired. I pulled the Dark Lord's list out from a drawer and examined it thoughtfully, while the Dark Lord peered curiously around my office.

"Quite a lot of jars you've got," he commented cheerily.

"Indeed," I responded distractedly. Some of these things could be found in the Forbidden Forest, actually, but some would require further travel. Where would be the best place to start?

"I suppose most of these are for show, then? Hardly any are actually useful."

"If they were useful, then I would use them instead of leaving them up there," I replied, not paying close attention until I'd realised that perhaps I'd been a little too fresh. I looked up to find the Dark Lord staring at me, looking rather bemused. Was that good or bad?

I wasn't sure if he wanted an apology or not. The informality of not calling him "my lord" was throwing me off. The Dark Lord  _lived_  for respect, although I supposed it didn't surprise me that he lived for the suffering of others even more.

I stayed silent, and he rolled his eyes at me and turned to peruse my bookshelves instead.

"Most of my actually interesting books are in my quarters, Harry," I said, hoping to appease him. Another thing I'd learned quite quickly about the Dark Lord was that he could hold a grudge with the best of them when he wanted to.

"I suppose students have rather limited vision. It wouldn't do for them to see anything too  _shocking._ "

"You would know, considering you're one of them now," I pointed out. "That must be terrible."

"Oh Severus, you have  _no_  idea," he said dramatically, and threw himself into the chair across my desk. "I've had absolutely the longest week."

"Oh?" I asked politely. I was sure mine had been longer, but I wasn't about to argue.

"Hermione's interesting enough, and apparently she's Potter's only friend anyway, but the rest of them are  _so_ boring. And classes are a nightmare. I feel like they've gotten easier since I was in school. I swear that some of the things we're covering were covered in my fourth year, or even earlier."

"Different professors cover material in different orders," I suggested. Frankly, I thought the other professors and I had done quite a good job of tightening up Hogwarts' curriculum (with the exception of Umbridge). True, the Ministry wasn't exactly helping our efforts, cutting funding wherever they could get away with it, but we made do.

"It's absolutely dreadful. And my plans can only be progressed so quickly, so I've found myself with oodles of free time." The Dark Lord let out an over-exaggerated sigh.

"Indeed…" I said, and returned to my list. "Where do you wish to start?"

"Might as well do the Forbidden Forest tonight, and get that out of the way. The crystals you can get at this cute little shop in Knockturn, although I'm not sure if they're still in business. The chalk needs to be taken from the Isle of Wight, so that'll be a bit of a trip. There's some strong magic in that area, so we can only get so close by apparating. We'll go Sunday evening."

"Very well." There were still some other items on the list unaccounted for, but they were less location dependent. Not necessarily easier, however. "Shall we adjourn?"

"Oh!" the Dark Lord exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "I brought Potter's cloak. Did you know it's a Deathly Hallow?" He pulled the cloak in question from his bag, and the silvery material caught the light in a most unphysical way.

The list fell from my fingers. " _What_?" I said, completely stunned. Potter's cloak? James Potter's old cloak? A Deathly Hallow? Merlin, I had  _worn_  it once… And Potter had worn it all the time! Could that have been one of the causes of his early death? One legend I'd heard said that the Hallows brought destruction down around them. But if that were the case, then I supposed Potter's entire line would have been plagued with misery. I would have to peruse the legends further.

"Yes, it's rather fascinating, actually. Dear Harry had no idea, of course. He'd never even heard of the Hallows."

"How did you come to discover this?" I asked in amazement.

The Dark Lord fingered the cloak gently, letting the fabric run through his hands. "I could tell something was special about it. It's steeped in magic, different than the creature magic found in regular invisibility cloaks." Invisibility cloaks were usually made with either lethifold skin or demiguise hair. "Not to mention, I'm rather more acquainted with Death than most. I… recognised it, I suppose you could say. Although I didn't realise exactly what it was until I'd done some research."

"I didn't even know the Hallows were real," I admitted, staring at the cloak in wonder. The Dark Lord smiled slightly.

"Neither did I. Rather an oversight on my part, if the legends are true. 'Master of Death' has a rather nice ring to it, I think. Actually, that Luna girl is the one who turned me on to the truth. She's rather fascinated by the Hallows. She's got the symbol on a pendant she wears around her neck."

I suppose that did seem like something Miss Lovegood would do, although I had never seen any such pendant. Not that I'd been looking.

"Are you ready?" I asked, feeling very much that I wasn't ready at all. But the Dark Lord merely nodded, and swept his cloak — a  _Hallow_  — over his shoulders. I stared at the place he'd disappeared, wondering if I could genuinely sense his presence or if it was a trick of my imagination. Then the door opened, and I shoved the foolish thought away.

"Let's go," the Dark Lord said, and I followed him out the door.

* * *

The Forbidden Forest was always dark and gloomy, but at night it was pitch-black. The sounds of the forest created a rich tapestry around us, letting us know that  _something_ was there, but I couldn't even see the hand in front of my face.

"Is this really necessary?" I hissed at the Dark Lord, making sure to keep my voice down. I felt a strange rush of adrenaline brought on by fear. I was terrified of what lurked in the dark, although the knowledge that I was standing next to one of the greatest wizards of all time calmed my nerves just a bit.

"Light will scare them away, Severus. You  _know_  this," the Dark Lord replied in a hushed whisper. He'd cast some sort of spell on his eyes to help him see in the dark, but had neglected to do the same for me. Instead, I was holding onto his cloak and letting him lead me like a small child.

I didn't know why I was even here. Surely the Dark Lord could collect everything on his own? Why did he even  _need_  me?

"Ahah!" he said triumphantly, although his voice was still quiet. "Severus, to your right you will find a pile of unicorn excrement. Sift through it and find something useful, will you?" Well, that answered my question. Potent magical ingredients couldn't be collected with magic without contaminating them, and I supposed the Dark Lord felt he was above grunt work.

"I thought we were looking for erklings?" I asked in annoyance. "And how am I supposed to go through the fucking pile if I can't see anything?"

There was a moment of silence. I let go of the Dark Lord's cloak.

"I mean, yes, of course, Harry." I sank down slowly to my knees and felt something squishy.

"See, you found it," the Dark Lord said in a menacingly cheerful tone, and I could  _feel_  him lean over me even though I couldn't see it. "And unicorn magic is very good at strengthening things. Might as well take advantage of this opportunity, no?"

The Dark Lord lit a small light at the end of his wand, just enough that I could make out the shape of the pile in front of me. The light was so dim I couldn't even see any colours, but I didn't need to.

Potter's form was looming over me, and reminded me uncomfortably of James Potter during school.

It was disgusting, but it didn't take me long to find what we were looking for. A small nugget of compressed grasses, which had been steeped in magic and felt extremely potent. I'd recognised it the second my fingers had touched it.

" _Very_  good," the Dark Lord said approvingly, and patted me condescendingly on the head. He pulled out a small bag from somewhere in his robes and held it open while I dropped the unicorn grass inside. He tucked the bag away, and waved his wand over my hands to clean them.

I clenched and unclenched them reflexively, always wary of someone casting magic on me, but I was thankful to not have to pull out my own wand with my hands such a mess.

I rose to my feet, grimacing at the stiffness in my knees. I cleaned my robes off while the Dark Lord dowsed the light, and once more everything disappeared from view.

"Isn't this  _exciting_ , Severus?" the Dark Lord whispered to me as I grabbed his cloak again.

"Perhaps," I replied neutrally, and I heard him huff.

"You're so much less fun in your old age," the Dark Lord commented, and I gaped at him.

"You're much older than me," I protested.

"Ah, but I'm young at  _heart_ ," the Dark Lord responded airily. We started moving again, at the same halting pace we'd started earlier.

"Physically, yes," I pointed out, and there was no verbal response.

We crept forward in silence for a while, until the Dark Lord suddenly stopped short. His actions took me by surprise and I bumped into him.

"What is it?" I whispered.

" _Listen_ ," came the reply, and I held my breath. The only thing I could hear was the hushed sound of the Dark Lord breathing next to me. Everything was so quiet that after a moment I thought I could even hear the beating of my heart.

"The forest has gone quiet," I murmured, loathe to disturb the silence.

"Yes." The response was no louder than an exhale.

An erkling was nearby.

I shifted slightly closer to the Dark Lord, gripping his cloak tightly. Erklings were class four creatures. Very dangerous, and a pitch-black forest like this was where they were most deadly. They liked to prey on small children when they could, although the ones here in the forest likely only ever saw other creatures. I thought I had read somewhere that they loved eating acromantula, but I had no idea if that was true.

Regardless, if I had been alone, I never would have thought about confronting one of the creatures.

"It's beautiful," the Dark Lord said in a hushed, reverent tone. I tensed, and moved closer to him, until I was practically pressed against him. I couldn't see the creature in the darkness, and I felt fear creep up in the realisation that I had no way of knowing where it was.

In a way, my prayers were answered only a moment later when two glowing red eyes came into view. Trust the Dark Lord to think beautiful something so evil. I'd seen pictures, and they weren't pretty, although the pictures didn't do the single pair of eyes I saw any justice.

I heard a rustle of fabric next to me, and the eyes disappeared. I exhaled softly in relief, and the Dark Lord led me forward a few steps. I hadn't realised how  _close_  the thing had been.

"Is it dead?" I whispered.

"Yes," the Dark Lord replied simply, and knelt down to do something to the body. A moment later he stood, and we continued our quest.

We wandered through the forest somewhat aimlessly I felt, until we stumbled upon a small clearing. The break in the trees allowed the dim moonlight to fall through, and I could just make out a large rock in the middle of the clearing.

The Dark Lord lit the end of his wand and turned to inspect a bush more closely. I leaned down next to him and found small hairs caught in the briars.

"Land squid hair," he said triumphantly, and I gave the hairs an appraising look. They looked like they could have come from any short-haired creature, but when I paid attention I could sense a sort of magic coming from them. "Collect these, Severus. I'm going to see if it's still nearby." The Dark Lord disappeared into the trees, taking the light with him.

I sighed and looked around for a moment before casting a lighting charm on the large rock. It let out a dull glow that gave me enough light to see the hairs and left my hands free to collect them.

I was so concentrated on removing the tiny hairs and placing them in a bag that I didn't notice the creature sneaking up through the bush next to me until it popped out suddenly right in front of me.

"Fuck!" I shouted, jumping backwards, only to trip over something and land flat on my back. I let out a low groan, and heard giggling coming from near my feet. There was a sudden rush of movement, and I felt something climb on top of me while something else snatched my wand from my pocket.

The tiny figure on my chest laughed, and I shoved it off of me and lunged to my feet to figure out where my wand had gone. The creature — an imp, I thought — had climbed onto the large rock, and was examining my wand triumphantly.

I shoved the bag of hairs into my pocket and went to snatch my wand back only to trip over three more imps who had gathered in my distraction.

"Get out of my way," I grumbled, and shoved them aside. But by the time I got back to my feet, even more had joined the small group. They chattered and giggled and chuckled endlessly, and squirmed over each other to get a better chance of grabbing my trousers as I tried to step over them. Some of them had started climbing me, clinging to my robes and pulling others up behind them.

"I! Fucking! Hate! Imps!" I exclaimed, punctuating each word with a kick at the imps who were crowding around me.

"Good lord Severus," said a wonderfully familiar voice. "I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" The Dark Lord stepped into the clearing and took in the scene with amusement.

The imps were gaining some ground, and had reached my waist. There were dozens of them now. Where were they  _coming_  from?

"They took my wand," I admitted reluctantly, nodding towards the one who was sitting on the rock, twirling it in his tiny fingers. My hands were busy shoving the imps away from me, but what they lacked in strength they more than made up for in numbers.

"Need some help?" the Dark Lord asked, grinning widely.

Ugh. "Yes, Harry, I would most appreciate your help," I said stiffly, but by now the imps had reached my chest, their sharp little claws digging into my shirt. " _Please_ , Harry," I added urgently.

The Dark Lord summoned my wand from the imp who'd taken it, who immediately started cursing at him. Then he flicked his wand casually and summoned a wind strong enough to pick up the little imps and fling them away.

Imps were naturally resistant to magic and couldn't be cast upon directly, but they weren't immune to physical effects.

I held myself still as I felt the wind tug at me, but as I was much heavier than an imp, I managed to stand my ground with no problem.

"Did you at least get the hairs?" the Dark Lord asked with a smile, stepping over to me and handing me my wand back. I kicked away the last few stragglers.

"Yes," I said, and showed him the bag.

"Most excellent," he hissed, eyeing the ingredients with a critical eye. "The power in these is immense."

The land squid was very dangerous and highly regulated. There was a good reason you couldn't just walk into an apothecary and buy land squid parts. For starters, any ingredients collected from them needed to be fresh. The land squid was highly magical, but that magic faded quickly. It was possible to make the potency last longer through the careful application of stasis charms, which is what I did under the watchful gaze of the Dark Lord, but even that would only extend their utility up to a week. More than enough for our purposes, at least.

The Dark Lord stowed the bag of hairs in his robes and turned his piercing gaze on me. We stared at each other for a moment in silent contemplation.

"Blood root," he said, and I nodded. We had plenty more work to do before the morning.

* * *

We returned to the castle a little before six, and I led us straight to my quarters so that I could stash the ingredients. I didn't particularly want to let the Dark Lord into my private space, but he followed me and I couldn't exactly tell him to go away.

"Funny, this is precisely what I would've expected from you," the Dark Lord commented, peering around my rooms in interest. He took in the overflowing bookshelves and the messy desk; the mismatched furniture and the stack of journals on the coffee table (even after my actions the previous weekend, the journals had somehow been quickly re-accumulated. I didn't even realise I  _read_  that many potions journals).

I didn't reply, and instead took the opportunity to stash the bags in the bottom drawer of my desk. The ingredients would be safe there until the Dark Lord requested them. Much safer than they'd be in Gryffindor tower, certainly, especially since there were limits to how much they could be warded before becoming contaminated.

The Dark Lord settled onto my couch and yawned widely. I felt myself yawn in response, against my will, and realised I'd been awake for almost twenty-four hours. It rather felt like I was dying.

"I'm going to bed," I informed him, and watched as the Dark Lord didn't move.

"Alright," he said mildly, and I stared at him pointedly. He rolled his eyes. "I'm  _tired_ , Severus. I'm going to rest my eyes. The Gryffindor tower is up eight flights of stairs and I simply can't be bothered with that right now." He toed his shoes off and stretched purposefully out on the couch.

"Very well," I acquiesced with a sigh. I was too tired to debate the point any further, and instead retreated to my bedroom, where I fell into bed almost immediately.

I must have fallen asleep quickly, because the next thing I knew I was being jolted awake by a loud banging.

I shot up in bed, feeling both alert and horribly groggy at the same time. Recognising the banging as someone at the door, I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed and into the sitting room.

The Dark Lord was lying on his back, one foot dangling over the edge of the couch and an arm thrown across his face.

"Please make it stop," he said groggily, shooting a glare at the door from underneath his arm.

I managed to stumble over to the door and pulled it open. Minerva was standing there, looking positively frantic. I instantly felt more alert, and moreover  _incredibly_  thankful that the angle of the door meant that she couldn't see what looked like Potter sleeping on my couch.

"What?" I asked grumpily.

"Potter's missing," she told me urgently.

Ah… Fuck.


	13. Harry Learns to Stand Up for Others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I recently realised that this story has drifted quite a bit from my original plan. As such, the descriptions I gave of the fic when I first started no longer really apply. For all the people who have been with me since the beginning, thank you for staying with me anyway. I understand that this fic isn't what you thought you were getting into, and I hope you enjoy it regardless. If it turns out this isn't your cup of tea, that's also totally fine. 
> 
> Back when I started, I had this idea that this fic would be about Snape and Harry overcoming the horcrux. I realised a few chapters in that this wasn't working for me, and the story evolved to be about Snape and the horcrux working together instead. In the end, I think it'll make for a stronger, more unique story, so I hope you all will stick with me. 
> 
> The core of this fic, however, hasn't changed. Severus Snape has always been, and always will be, the main protagonist.
> 
> If you're missing Harry, he'll be back at the end of the fic and will be a main character in the sequel.

**Chapter 13 — Harry Learns to Stand Up for Others**

 

_Previously:_

_“Potter’s missing,” she told me urgently._

_Ah… Fuck._

 

Minerva stared at me with wide eyes, and I found myself at a loss for what to say. “What happened?” I finally asked, trying to buy myself some time. Shit shit shit. I needed to think, and I was so tired I thought I would fall over any second. I had not been prepared for this, and I could _believe_ I hadn’t expected it. This was just my luck. 

“Mister Thomas let me know this morning that Potter never returned to the tower last night. He asked around, and no one’s seen Potter since yesterday at dinner.”

I glanced behind the door over at my sofa, upon which the Dark Lord had sat up. He was gazing at me with an overtly curious expression, no doubt wondering what I would do.

I turned back to Minerva. “What time is it?” 

Minerva pursed her lips in disapproval. “It’s almost eight thirty. _Come_ , Severus. We must organise a search of the castle. In these uncertain times, there’s no telling—“

“There’s no need to worry, professor. I’m right here,” the Dark Lord said, appearing at my side. I hadn’t even heard him get up. Fuck. A bad situation had just gotten even worse.

Minerva gaped at the apparent boy, her eyes softening as she took in his healthy if sleepy condition. “I’m glad to see you’re alright,” she said, and I could hear the sincerity in her words. Then she turned her gaze on me. I flinched at the anger in her eyes. “Severus Snape, _what_ is the meaning of this?”

I had to admit, this looked bad. This looked very _very_ bad. Potter in my personal quarters was bad enough, but with him looking like he’d _slept_ here and after everyone thinking he was missing— Dear Merlin, the implications were awful. 

“Potter was helping me gather potions ingredients for a detention,” I said stiffly, my mind racing to try to come up with something that would excuse away his presence. A large part of me wasn’t sure there was even anything to be found.

“It’s true, professor,” the Dark Lord piped up. As if he hadn’t already said enough. “Then I fell asleep.”

“But why are you _here_?” Minerva asked, no less scandalised. A late night detention, followed by a night spent in my quarters? I would be scandalised too. I idly wondered if Slughorn had ever used this very excuse when he was taking advantage of the young girls under his care. My mind rebelled at the very thought.

The Dark Lord turned to me expectantly, and I could see traces of humour in his eyes. He could go fuck himself, that was for sure. My head was _aching_ from how tired I was, and if I didn’t get back to bed soon I was likely to have a complete fucking breakdown. The last thing I wanted was to be dealing with this _shit_. 

“We’d been practicing Occlumency and Potter was in no state to return to his dormitory,” I tried. Minerva didn’t know much about Occlumency, so perhaps she would buy the excuse. 

She narrowed her eyes at me. “I thought you said we were collecting potions ingredients.” Jesus fucking christ, I could not catch a fucking break. As if I would be fucking _Potter_ of all people, and even if I were I wouldn’t be stupid enough to be so obvious about it.

Merlin almighty, had I really just thought that? Fuck, I was tired. “We were, that was the official reason for the detention.” Oh gods, my lies were getting clumsy. My brain felt like a fog and thinking felt like I was trying to move through syrup. “I took advantage of the opportunity to conduct a lesson.” Fuck! Why had I used that language? Gods, could I sound any more guilty?

Minerva eyed me for a long moment before turning to Potter. “Is this true?” she asked, searching his face for any indication that he was sleeping with his professor. 

“Yes, of course,” the Dark Lord said, looking puzzled as if he couldn’t comprehend why Minerva would doubt him. Good, good. That would go a long way towards suggesting my innocence. He wasn’t off the hook for getting me into this mess in the first place, however. 

Except he was the fucking _Dark Lord_ and could do whatever he wanted, and there was hardly anything I could do about it. Albus was the same way, so I couldn’t even find it within myself to hate him for it. 

Minerva looked slightly appeased but still suspicious. “Well, I suppose I’ll go tell Mister Thomas he needn’t have worried…” And fuck Dean Thomas for actually being an adequate prefect. If Minerva had picked Weasley after all, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. 

“I’ll come with you, professor,” the Dark Lord said with a charming smile. How he managed his act so perfectly when he was obviously exhausted was beyond me. I was barely keeping it together as it was. I felt nervous and shaky, and I had to clench my fists to stop my hands from trembling.

Minerva gave me a glare as they left. “I’ll be keeping an _eye_ on you,” she said threateningly, then disappeared with her charge.

Dear Merlin. I closed the door gently and then stared at the dark wood for a long moment. Then I turned around and marched straight back into my bedroom and fell into bed. 

I would deal with this later. 

 

* * *

 

‘Later’ turned out to be at lunch, which was far too soon. I’d only gotten maybe five or six hours of sleep, and after being up for so long, it certainly wasn’t enough. Minerva spent the entire time glaring at me from the other end of the table, and Albus kept giving me evaluating looks. I couldn’t tell if he was angry at me or not, and I was almost too tired to care.

I ate lunch alone and then retreated to my office as quickly as possible, where I spent the afternoon studying Bane’s diary furiously. The most recent passage I’d decoded indicated that there was an entrance to his belfry somewhere in the East Tower, which was a resounding success, although the East Tower was still far too large an area to search by hand. 

That evening, I was finally summoned by… well, you know who. 

I apparated to Lucius’, and he was awaiting all of us in the entrance hall. I’d donned the traditional death eater apparel, which unfortunately included that stupid itchy mask. It never fit right even though it was spelled, and if I hadn’t checked it thoroughly, I would have sworn that someone had cursed it to be extra uncomfortable. 

“My faithful sssservantssss…” he started, once we’d all been gathered. There were maybe twenty of us at the meeting, so a reasonably small group, and the elder (physically) Dark Lord mostly spoke of various small terrorist acts and of treaties he was attempting with some of the magical creatures. He was especially courting the werewolves, and Fenrir Greyback was supposedly softening to his cause. From what I knew of Greyback, I thought it just as likely that he would betray us as help us, but I supposed the elder Dark Lord had ways of ensuring his loyalty. 

Not that he’d ensured mine… 

I carefully put any such thoughts out of my mind, and focussed on the meeting. It was longer than the Order meetings, as there was more to discuss, but the undercurrent of fear that ran through all of us kept it from being truly boring. 

The elder Dark Lord paced in front of us as he spoke and listened to reports, and he twirled his wand idly in his fingers. He would occasionally stop pacing to curse someone who had displeased him, and we all let out a collective flinch every time, cognisant of the fact that at any moment it could be us — and at the same time grateful that it wasn’t. His giant snake slithered around the room, periodically stopping to examine someone more closely. 

All in all, it was not an environment conducive to boredom.

Boredom, however, wasn’t really the problem. I felt antsy and distracted, a result of my lack of sleep no doubt. Annoying at the best of times, downright dangerous right now. 

The Dark Lord saved my report until after he’d dismissed everyone. Only Lucius and Gavin remained, and the four of us seated ourselves around a small receiving table. 

Gavin was… unsuspecting, was the first adjective that came to mind. The man was quiet and calm, and moved with a gentle sort of purpose. He was shorter than average, with plain features and brown hair that curled slightly at the ends. He was also an editor at the Daily Prophet. 

“Rathey—“ that was his last name, “—report,” the elder Dark Lord commanded, once we had settled into our seats. 

“You may be interested in this, sire,” Gavin started. That was another thing. He called the elder Dark Lord _sire_ of all things. The elder Dark Lord seemed to enjoy it, for Gavin had risen quite quickly through the ranks. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of him, but he’d always been polite to me when we saw each other, which had been much more often over the summer. “There was an attack on the Ministry last night.”

Unsurprisingly, the Dark Lord _was_ interested in that. As were Lucius and I. 

“An attack?” Lucius demanded, clearly unable to help himself. “Why haven’t I heard about it?”

Gavin gave him an unimpressed look. “I was under the impression you didn’t work on weekends,” he said mildly, and I fought to keep a smile off my face. Perhaps I liked Gavin, just a bit.

The elder Dark Lord liked him as well. “Luciussss, do shut up,” he said, not even looking at the suddenly pale pureblood. “Continue.”

“A small group of people, they estimate around five or six, managed to infiltrate the Ministry yesterday night. They were apprehended on their way to the Department of Mysteries.”

That drew a contemplative silence from the elder Dark Lord. 

“They’re not affiliated with any of my compatriots as far as I am aware, my lord,” I said respectfully. Gavin wasn’t technically aware of my status as a spy, but he likely suspected given the fact that I was a professor in Albus’ school. Not to mention he was a rather good information gatherer. 

“Will you be printing thissss?” the elder Dark Lord finally asked, leaning back in his chair and resting a long, pale finger on his chin thoughtfully. I forced myself to keep all thoughts of the Dark Lord out of my mind. It was difficult not to compare the two, but I could do that later from the privacy of my chambers.

“The Ministry is requesting silence from us for the time being,” Gavin explained. “However, that will likely only last a few weeks at most. There is only so long they can keep something like this secret, and the public will start to question our credibility if we don’t report it.” 

The Daily Prophet was working for the Ministry to run a smear campaign against Albus and Potter. From what I could tell, it was working fairly well, although no doubt— Later. There would be time to think about that later.

“What do you know about thissss group?” 

“Very little, as a matter of fact, which is telling in and of itself. The Ministry is unable to identify any of them, and so far they’ve all refused to speak. They’ve even tried veritaserum, to no avail.” 

Wasn’t _that_ interesting. Although veritaserum was widely considered to be infallible, that was not in fact the case. Strong Occlumency could guard against some of the effects, and there had been rumours of an antidote for long enough that I suspected it might actually be true. Having brewed it, there wasn’t anything inherent to the potion that prevented an antidote, although that was no guarantee that it was easy or even possible for a human being to make one. Still, people could be very clever sometimes. 

“Foreign?” the elder Dark Lord asked, clearly intrigued by this turn of events.

“Perhaps. They had wands, but none of them were registered and the materials were all suspiciously boring. Unicorn hairs, a dragon heartstring, locally available woods — nothing that indicates they may be foreigners. Nothing of their clothing, either. None of them were carrying anything else on them.”

“How did they get caught?” I asked, unwittingly fascinated by the tale. These people sounded extremely capable (or perhaps the Ministry was just _that_ incompetent, which I hesitated to rule out) and it seemed odd that they would get caught. 

“There were a couple of Unspeakables working late who happened to be having a tea break at just the right moment. Complete stroke of luck. If they hadn’t been there, these people might have actually managed whatever it was they were doing there.”

Well, that was a little awkward for Lucius, who had been trying for months to do the very same thing. Indeed, he was looking a little green about the gills. 

“What hasss the Ministry done about ssssecurity in responssse to the attack?” the elder Dark Lord asked, still not looking at Lucius. I wondered if that was on purpose. I wondered if he was _enjoying_ this. Probably. I knew I was. 

“They haven’t increased their security as a whole, but did increase the security around the Department of Mysteries. There’s also been some talk of reorganisation in the department, according to one of my sources, but there was only so much they could tell me. Possibly they’re renewing the confidentiality oaths as well.”

The elder Dark Lord nodded. “Well done, Rathey. Thisss information isss useful indeed. And I’m sure it’sss of _most_ interest to Luciusss, is it not?” Finally, the elder Dark Lord turned to give Lucius a critical look.

Lucius, who had been looking pale and vaguely green before, now had some red thrown into the mix as well. Truly, he looked ridiculous. I made eye contact with Gavin and we shared the slightest of smiles. I realised then with a bit of a jolt that I quite missed Minerva, but there was nothing I could do about the situation at the moment.

And likely she would just need a few days to cool off, anyway. But I could worry about that later.

“Yes, of course, my lord,” Lucius said, although he didn’t sound very sure of himself. I wonder if he realised he didn’t have any friends here? Not likely, considering the brief flicker of his eyes towards me, and the way he sat up straighter afterwards. I found it vaguely amusing that he took some reassurance in my presence, considering.

Still. I supposed he was a friend, of a sort. Could you have a friend you secretly despised?

What was I saying. I spent most of my time in a castle full of teenagers who oscillated between hating each other and fancying themselves in love with each other on a daily basis. 

Not to mention, I was a Slytherin. Most friendships in that house were with people you secretly despised.

I was having trouble controlling my thoughts, even with the entertainment in front of me. I needed to _focus_.

Lucius stuttered his way through some more excuses and vague promises, while the elder Dark Lord seemed to enjoy himself. His waxy, serpentine face looked somehow even more menacing with the slight smile he now wore, and Lucius certainly noticed. 

Finally, Lucius had the good sense to just give up and stop talking. 

“Sssee that you do,” the elder Dark Lord said idly, and then waved his wand that I hadn’t even realised had found its way into his hand.

Lucius flinched, but when nothing happened, he looked around, confused.

“Ssseveruss, report,” the elder Dark Lord instructed me, and waved his wand idly again. Lucius opened his mouth in a soundless scream, and started writhing in his chair. 

I kept myself focused on the man (was that even the right word?) in front of me, trying to ignore the jerks and shudders coming from Lucius’ body.

“The old fool suspects that you have ties to the Daily Prophet, but is unable to prove it. His attempts to reach out to reporters have been embarrassing failures, my lord,” I informed him. Dumbledore had attempted to contact three different people, only to receive _five_ Howlers in return. He was not a popular man at the moment.

“And of the Minisssstry?” the Dark Lord inquired.

“He has but a few allies in the Ministry, although he is trying to obtain more. With Umbridge about, it’s difficult for him to manoeuvre as he once did.” And what few allies he did have were frankly embarrassing wastes of space. Washed up aurors and trainees too green to realise they were joining up on a fool’s errand.

“Good. In time, Umbridge will grow only more powerful, and with luck she will ssssoon remove him from the cassstle all together.”

As much as I hated Umbridge, even she would be an improvement over that old goat. It would certainly take some of the pressure off of me to be on alert at all times. 

The elder Dark Lord finally broke eye contact, turning back to Lucius, who was panting silently in his chair. Merlin. That had been intense. I hadn’t even noticed the curse being lifted from Lucius. At least now my thoughts were somewhat my own again, although I still needed to be on guard.

“Have you sssucceeded in _that_ , at least?” he asked cruelly, and Lucius winced. He looked even worse than he had before, shiny with sweat and tears that had leaked down his face. I tried not to look at him too closely, to spare him that much embarrassment. 

“Y- yes, my lord. The Umbridge woman has bribed Fudge personally, and I managed to exert some influence over the board of governors to make sure they won’t stand in her way.”

The fact that Lucius still had any sway over the board after he’d been kicked off was truly a testament to his ability to smarm with the best of them. Not that it helped him right now.

Still, the elder Dark Lord didn’t curse him again, which was something. 

“Dissmisssed, all of you.” 

Lucius didn’t even bat an eye at the indignity of being dismissed in his own home, and instead hurried out of the room as quickly as possible. I debated going after him, but likely he wouldn’t appreciate it. I would let him nurse his broken pride in peace. 

Gavin and I saw ourselves out, not speaking. Perhaps we were both a little shaken over what had happened to Lucius. 

“Good evening, Severus,” Gavin said, with a bit of a wicked smirk on his face. Perhaps not, then. I supposed he’d just been revelling in a fine evening.

Truly, I wanted to see Lucius taken down somewhat, and I would be more than pleased to personally kill the rest of his fucking peacocks, but torture was a little extreme. He was kind to me, in his own way. Still, I wouldn’t weep for him.

Instead, I made my way back to Hogwarts to finally get the sleep I so desperately needed.

 

* * *

 

Noon the next day found me in Diagon Alley, where I was… _enjoying_ … lunch with Umbridge. She was nattering on, telling me more details of her work in the Ministry than I’d ever wanted to hear.

A few tidbits had been useful, namely who was most supportive of her and who seemed to be actively working against her. I remembered the names of those she considered enemies to pass on to Albus later. He hadn’t actually been working to recruit those in the Ministry, although he’d put out a few feelers in order to look like he was, but a few allies would not be remiss at the moment. 

Thankfully my memory was superb and I was able to commit the names to memory without actually needing to pay close attention. 

I sipped delicately at my drink, a basil-lime seltzer. Rather a strange combination, but I enjoyed it.

“What do you think, Severus?” Umbridge suddenly asked. Shit, what had she been talking about? Something about her assistant at the Ministry? 

“ _I_ think you look rather lovely today, that’s what I think,” I said, trying to smile charmingly. The facial movements felt wrong and unnatural to me. Blast, James Potter had always made it look so effortless. How the devil had he done it?

Still, Umbridge looked appropriately charmed. She turned bright red and let out agirlish little giggle that set my teeth on edge and made me want to upright my actually quite nice drink right over her head.

“Oh, you!” she tittered, and I smiled emptily at her. Was this what romance was? Would it have been different if it had been someone I genuinely liked, sitting across the table from me?

It had been so long since I’d been on a date, or been in any romantic situation that I found I had quite genuinely forgotten. Even when I was younger, my experiences were hardly standard. My roommates had gone on frequent dates with pretty girls, walking around the lake and holding hands or sharing a warm drink in Hogsmeade on a cold Saturday. 

Most of the dates I’d been on had ended in tears or blood, and on one embarrassing occasion, both. 

I hadn’t been on very many dates. Actually, this brought my total up to six. So perhaps “most” was a bit of a strong word to use. 

Everyone else I’d ever gone on a date with had ended up dead. How much longer did I have to wait before Umbridge met the same fate? I only prayed it was soon. 

I finished my seltzer for something to do in the awkward silence, and discreetly eyed the waiter. Was it gauche to ask for the check? Would she be offended? 

“This has been _so_ lovely, Severus, but I really must be heading back to the castle,” Umbridge said, with real regret in her voice.

“Must you?” I asked, aiming for seductive but ending up sounding merely petulant. Probably for the best. “I much prefer keeping your company _away_ from the watchful eyes of the little demons.” 

“Oh they _are,_ aren’t they,” Umbridge said fervently. “I realise all this secrecy must be so hard on you, but an important Ministry figure such as myself really can’t afford any rumours — no matter _how_ delicious.”

There was… so much about that I didn’t even want to think about. It was exceedingly insulting to have _her_ ashamed of _me_ , but it was also miles preferable to the alternative of her actually wishing to act something of a couple at Hogwarts. Not to be overdramatic about it or anything, but I would quite possibly die. 

“Will you be accompanying me back to the castle?” Umbridge asked flirtatiously, while I paid the check with Albus’ money. I left a generous tip. Albus could go fuck himself. 

“I’m afraid not, Dolores,” I replied. “There’s some business I must attend to here in the Alley.”

“Then I shall see you later, my darling,” she promised, although it felt more like a threat. It was only our second date and we were already on ‘darling’? I was concerned. Did they sell alcohol here?

Merlin, what was I thinking? It would be much cheaper at the off-license down the block. 

“Indeed,” I responded, and thankfully we soon parted ways.

I was just coming out of the liquor store when a handsome young man bumped into me.

I gave him a glare and made to continue on my way before pausing. The man was maybe half a foot shorter than me, and was grinning up at me in a disturbingly familiar manner…

“Harry?” I asked uncertainly, once more mentally cursing the Dark Lord for forcing me to use that name.

“Don’t I look fabulous?” the Dark Lord preened. “I didn’t want to attract too much attention. I took an ageing potion, and transfigured my appearance enough so no one would recognise me.”

I peered closer. Now that he’d mentioned it, I could indeed see traces of Potter’s face, although more grown up now. Merlin, I could actually see traces of Lily as well. Apparently Potter would start favouring his mother with age. I could also see— 

“Did you transfigure it to look more like _yourself_?” I asked in fascination. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t recognised him immediately. He had the same nose as the Dark Lord had, the same pout of his lips — but in Potter’s face. It was surreal. 

It was also an objectively attractive mash-up, something I found highly disturbing. Their features genuinely complimented each other, and they’d had more physically in common than I’d thought. Even their hair was the same colour, although Potter’s was perpetually messier.

No wonder the Dark Lord was enjoying Potter’s body so much. 

“Quite good, isn’t it?” the Dark Lord said, peering at his reflection in the window of the off-license that we were still embarrassingly standing in front of. I had a bottle of something strong waiting in my pocket and I itched to pull it out, while at the same time entertaining thoughts of just throwing it away. It’d been over a week since I last imbibed, surely a date wasn’t enough to weaken my resolve? Especially if the disaster that was Saturday morning hadn’t.

“Mmm,” I mumbled non-commitally. I didn’t feel comfortable commenting. “How did you get here?” I asked curiously. 

“I’m sixty-five years old, Severus. Do you think I don’t know how to apparate?” 

Well. Now I felt slightly less awkward about this whole trip. The Dark Lord wasn’t really my student, for all that he literally was my student. Minerva would kill me if she ever found out I’d taken Potter out of the castle again, but that was a small matter. 

Especially considering the Dark Lord would kill me if I refused to help him. 

“The Ministry can’t detect it?” I didn’t want to sound disrespectful, but I was genuinely curious.

The Dark Lord snorted. “The Ministry can’t detect unlicensed apparation.”

My jaw dropped slightly, although I managed to catch it before I looked too foolish. “How do they enforce licenses?” 

“It’s tied into the trace on an underage wand. They just assume you’ve got your license once you’re old enough. Of course, the trace doesn’t work in areas heavily saturated with magic, so…” The Dark Lord gave a careless shrug that normally would have annoyed me, but my anger was turned elsewhere. 

Merlin. “Why don’t more people know of this?” Although there were a lot of things more people should have known but didn’t…

“Certain people do,” he acknowledged. “But the general public simply doesn’t care very much. Apparating without a license is still illegal, and if you do get caught you can still face prison. It’s not unlike muggles and cars, actually, although apparating is much faster.”

The ease of which the Dark Lord spoke of muggles surprised me. “Have you driven a car?” I asked in amazement. 

He merely smirked at me, and nodded towards Knockturn. “Shall we?” he said. 

My fist unconsciously clenched around the pocket of my robe. I couldn’t feel the bottle in there, since my pocket was wizard space, but I knew it was in there. “Of course,” I murmured, and we leisurely strolled towards Knockturn. 

The shop with the crystals that the Dark Lord had mentioned was indeed still there. It was tucked down a back alley and around a corner, and frankly I was amazed it was still in business given how much of a hassle it had been to find. The inside smelled strongly of some sort of incense, and the small shop was cluttered with spindly tables holding trays of iridescent crystals.

I gave the Dark Lord a skeptical look.

“Just wait,” he assured me, and walked up to the counter. There was a large mechanical till sitting on the counter, and a gauzy purple scarf-like object with golden tassels hung off the edge. There was a shiny silver bell next to the till, and the Dark Lord tapped it solidly with one finger.

A clear chime echoed throughout the shop. There was a moment of hushed silence. 

“Yes, dearies?” came a creaky voice from directly behind us. I started, and turned around in surprise, but the Dark Lord kept his calm much better and turned around leisurely. At which point, his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Elena, is that you?” he asked, looking the old witch up and down. She was wearing a loose robe patterned haphazardly in different colours, and she had long grey hair tied in a thick braid. 

She squinted at the Dark Lord. “Who’s asking?”

The Dark Lord merely shot her a winning smile.

“Humph,” she said, and examined him more closely. “That’s a lot of magic there. Such a shame to hide your pretty face. Not that it’s yours, is it?” 

The Dark Lord seemed unconcerned, and merely gave her a casual shrug, but I felt my heart racing. What did she know? Could she truly recognise him? And why was the Dark Lord _encouraging_ it?

“What do you want?” she demanded, less friendly than she’d been a moment ago. 

“A crystal number nineteen and a number thirty two, if you don’t mind.” 

She stared at him suspiciously for a moment, before bursting into movement and bustling around the small shop. “Number nineteen, eh?” she said. She opened a small drawer, rummaged around inside for a moment before slamming it shut again and moving onto a different drawer all the way on the other side of the shop. “I don’t sell many of those,” she called over her shoulder.

“I’d be surprised if you did,” the Dark Lord commented mildly. 

Truthfully, I knew very little about crystals. I knew they were generally used for storing magic, but I wasn’t sure what that meant or how that applied to a strengthening ritual. Crystals weren’t commonly used in potions due to the thermal properties of the crystal. Generally, it just wasn’t worth the added effort. 

“Here’s your thirty two,” the old witch announced, and tossed a small crystal over her shoulder. The Dark Lord caught it easily, and I wondered how much of that was Potter’s reflexes and how much of that was him. He held the crystal up to the light, and it cast sparkling blue shadows on the floor. 

“This is very nice quality,” he said, examining the crystal with a critical eye.

“As if I would give you something that wasn’t!” the old witch said, and finally returned to us carrying a small black box. “And here’s the nineteen.”

The Dark Lord eyed the box in her hands in anticipation, and I could practically see him licking his lips.

He reached for the box, but the old woman pulled it away. “You’re aware of the dangers?” she asked seriously, a grave look on her face.

“Oh, I’m aware,” the Dark Lord assured her. What dangers? I wasn’t aware of any dangers. Was _I_ in danger?

The old witch gave me a critical look, as if she knew what I was thinking, but nonetheless she reluctantly held the box out for the Dark Lord to take.

He practically snatched it out of her hands and opened it reverently. I made to peer inside, but he snapped the lid shut again before I could get a good look.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked.

“Twenty two galleons,” she informed him.

Merlin on a fucking _stick_. How were pieces of rock so expensive? 

The Dark Lord wordlessly pulled out a small bag, and counted out twenty two galleons onto the counter. “It’s been a pleasure,” he said easily, and led me back out of the shop towards the main alley.

“That was… a lot of money,” I said, still stupefied. 

“She overcharges, but the quality is unbeatable,” the Dark Lord informed me. 

I desperately wanted to ask about crystal no. 19, but we simply didn’t have time for the in-depth magical theory discussion that I so desired.

The Dark Lord consulted his list again. “We should probably stop by a hospital on our way south,” he said absently, and I flinched. I supposed a hospital was the easiest way to acquire some of the needed items, but it was almost unbearably disquieting. 

“As you wish,” I said obediently, although I felt a little faint.

The Dark Lord examined me with a critical eye. “Good god Severus, it won’t be that bad. Five minutes with a bone-saw and it’ll be no trouble at all.”

“That wasn’t actually the one I was most concerned about,” I said, carefully not meeting his gaze.

The Dark Lord glanced down at the list again. “Hmm. Well, I suppose I can understand why one might be squeamish about that kind of thing.” He didn’t look like he particularly understood. Was he just saying that to try to be nice? What a peculiar thought. Especially considering the topic of our conversation.

“Don’t worry,” the Dark Lord said, suddenly cheerful. “I think you’ll be surprised how easy it is,” he added, thus further confirming my theory that he didn’t actually understand.

“Very well,” I replied, unsure of what else to say. If I mentioned any sort of moral code, the Dark Lord would likely just laugh at me. It wouldn’t be very productive, anyway. 

“The hospital it is then,” the Dark Lord stated, and grabbed my arm before I’d even realised he’d moved. A moment later, he apparated us away. 

 

* * *

 

Thankfully, we returned to the castle early enough that Potter’s absence wouldn’t be noted — just in time to catch the end of dinner.

The Dark Lord slipped into the Great Hall immediately, and I took the time to drop the last of the ingredients off in my quarters first. I didn’t particularly want to linger over dinner anyway, since Minerva was likely still mad at me.

It turned out not to matter, since the only ones still at dinner were Albus, Vector, and Umbridge. 

Umbridge gave me a coy smile when I entered, and I gave her the smallest nod that she would still recognise in response. 

I sat down, not next to Albus, but only a few seats away from him. I had spoken to him briefly yesterday evening after the elder Dark Lord summoned me, but it hadn’t been a long enough chat for me to gauge where we stood after the little incident of Minerva thinking I was taking advantage of Potter. He was still giving me strange looks, but they were lacking the tinges of disapproval that he was so good at showing.

Today was more of the same, and I ate my dinner as efficiently as possible. I would need to talk to him at some point about the intelligence I’d gathered from Umbridge earlier, but none of it was especially time sensitive. 

I finished just before dinner wrapped up, the last of the professors to remain (although Albus was still here), and decided to linger a few more minutes to enjoy a warm dessert. Truthfully, I was a little nervous about returning to my quarters knowing what awaited me there. The ingredients were tucked away out of sight, but I could still feel their malevolent presence seeping into the rest of the room. I would have to keep a sharp eye out for any unwanted magical creatures until the Dark Lord’s ritual. Who knows what sorts of things would be drawn to my rooms.

Dinner ended with a whimper: the empty plates and serving dishes disappeared with nary a whisper. I followed the small crowd of students out of the hall — and stopped suddenly when the crowd became an impenetrable wall in front of me.

My reputation, of course, occasionally had its uses, and the students hastily made way for me once I started pushing through. I reached the front to find a strange sight: the Dark Lord standing next to a shivering first year, glaring at Umbridge who looked desperately like she wanted to kill him.

I had a bad feeling about this.

“That’s no reason to give him detention!” the Dark Lord shouted, managing to capture exactly the self-righteous tone I’d heard from Potter a hundred times. “And with a blood quill no less!”

“What I do in my detentions is my decision!” Umbridge blustered. Merlin, she was taking entirely the wrong track here.

“Yeah, and your decision is to torture innocent first years for no reason!” the Dark Lord accused. I saw a few nods in the crowd, even from people who’d been outspoken against him. 

Umbridge was furious. I could tell by the way her face reddened, her fists clenched and unclenched seemingly out of her control — she was clearly losing it. What she said next only confirmed my theory. “I don’t need a reason!” she shouted at the Dark Lord, who wrapped a comforting arm around the first-year and pulled him close. A _Hufflepuff_ first-year, no less. He would gain himself quite a few allies in that house.

“It’s okay, Huey,” the devil muttered quietly to the young boy. “It’ll be all right.”

“Detention, Potter!” Umbridge shouted, clearly aware that she was losing control of the situation and floundering for any way to bring Potter back under her heel. “For a month!”

The Dark Lord raised his chin defiantly. Or _was_ it Potter? The gesture was so perfectly familiar it almost hurt. “Fine!” he said, and stalked off, taking the first-year with him.

“Get out of my way!” Umbridge yelled, spinning around and glaring at some of the students crowded around behind her. The students scattered away from her, and already I could hear murmurings of disapproval. Umbridge had set herself up as someone to be reviled, and now the Dark Lord had offered the perfect rebuttal — a hero to stand up to the tyrant.

It was poetic, in a way. Could one be a poet whose choice of quill was the people around him?

The Dark Lord had been publicly quiet on the subject of the _elder_ Dark Lord recently, and while Potter was still being featured in the papers, the students were looking at it more and more skeptically. They still didn’t believe the Dark Lord had returned, of course, but with Potter not discussing it at all it made the reporters seem merely petty. It was becoming old news, anyway. The articles were trailing off.

“I can’t believe they let her teach here,” a third-year Ravenclaw muttered darkly to her friend. “She never even teaches us anything. How are we supposed to pass our O.W.L.s?” Trust a Ravenclaw to already be concerned about O.W.L.s. 

“My mother hired me a tutor,” her friend admitted in response, and then they passed once more into the crowd of slowly dispersing students.

And wasn’t that just a fitting metaphor? The Ministry ruined the students’ education, but those with rich enough parents would escape unscathed, as always. 

Although… I supposed the ones involved in the Dark Lord’s little study group would also escape unscathed. That was also fitting in a rather unsettling way that I didn’t want to examine too closely at the moment. 

I finally mustered up the courage to return to my rooms. The light was dimmer than it should have been, and already a thin layer of dust had accumulated, but I didn’t see any especially terrifying creatures. Perhaps I would manage to escape mostly unscathed. 

“Mipsy,” I called, and there was a moment of stillness. A sense of unease grew within me, before finally the small elf appeared.

“Y-you is calling me, Master Snape?” she asked, looking around the room nervously.

“Is everything alright?” I asked, although clearly it wasn’t. I didn’t want to simply demand personal information from her — she would have to obey, wouldn’t she? — but her nerves were likely due to the ingredients I had hidden in my sock drawer. My metaphorical sock drawer, of course. My real sock drawer was less of a “drawer” and more of a “box”. 

Not that that had any bearing on the situation in front of me at the moment. 

“Something is being wrong, Master Snape,” Mipsy whispered fervently. 

“Ah… yes… I have some ingredients I’m keeping here temporarily that are rather unseemly.” 

Mipsy shuddered, and tugged anxiously on the ends of her hair. “What is you needing, sir?” she asked, still casting a baleful eye around the dim room.

“It’s going to be a little dirtier in here than usual because of the aura from the ingredients, and some creatures might try to move in. Please let me know if anything unusual happens, and I will take care of it. Don’t concern yourself with anything other than your usual duties.”

Mipsy nodded her understanding, although she didn’t look any more relieved. “Yes Master Snape sir,” she said, and with a snap of her fingers she and the dust both disappeared.

I glanced over at where the ingredients were being kept. It wasn’t quite visible, but there was a noticeable dark aura hovering around that corner of the room. It manifested as a general sense of unease and discontent. 

My hand slipped to the bottle in my pocket. I hadn’t had a drink in over a week now. That wasn’t very long. Hardly even worth thinking of it as any sort of life change. More that I just hadn’t had the opportunity. 

And now, Sunday evening, I was ahead on grading. The quiz I was preparing for tomorrow was finished, and I was hardly about to be summoned by the Dark Lord. 

I pulled the bottle out. It was the cheapest bottle of magic gin they’d had on the shelf, but it would do. Merlin, but I was tired. I sank down onto the sofa (the one the Dark Lord had slept on just the other night) and cracked open the bottle. I didn’t even bother with a glass, just took a swig.

It burned on the way down, and the after taste was something vaguely herbal. I took another sip. 

“There’s dark magic in the corner,” I commented to myself. “Getting drunk near it is a singularly bad idea.” That’s what it wanted, wasn’t it? I’d somehow forgotten. It _wanted_ me to forget. I closed my eyes with a tired sigh and reinforced my occlumency barriers. 

My mood lightened a little, and I put the bottle down. After what happened last week, I wasn’t sure I could trust myself to stick to just one drink. 

I stared at the bottle for a long moment. The label had a smiling blue cat on it. The diary — I should be studying the diary, not the gin.

The bottle was in my hand again before I even realised, and I took another sip. 

Gingerly, I set it back down and cleared my mind. My mind stayed carefully blank as I slowly stood and picked up the bottle. I thought of nothing as I walked over to the sink and poured the entire contents of the bottle down the drain.

I set the bottle on the counter with a small _clink_ , and let the thoughts back into my mind. 

Then, even though it was only eight thirty, I went to bed. 

I had terrible nightmares. 

 


	14. Severus Learns to Celebrate Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five chapters left and then an epilogue! We're getting close to the end, guys!

The weeks passed with excruciating slowness.

The Dark Lord performed his rituals a few days after we finished collecting the ingredients. He was right about the tedious nature of the potions required, but the few sleepless nights were ultimately worth the unique insights I'd gained. I'd never seen potions used in such a way in rituals, and I had many new avenues for further study.

Plus, the Dark Lord let me continue living, which I appreciated.

Albus invited me to his office multiple times, and each time we chatted idly and sipped tea — and never once did he bring up Potter. I had no idea if that was good or bad, but considering it was Albus, I was expecting some sinister combination of the two.

But time, as it always does and always will, trudged along, and I found myself anticipating the end of the winter term with almost a feverish excitement. Then, on the Monday night before break, everything came to a screeching halt.

I was awoken in the middle of the night by a small figure shaking me awake.

" _What?_ " I growled, automatically reaching for the wand under my pillow.

"Master Snape sir! The headmaster is requiring you!" Mipsy said urgently, wringing her hands.

"What the devil for?" I asked, trying to blink the grogginess out of my eyes. It didn't work. Every blink reminded me that I could be sleeping at this moment instead of staring at a nervous house elf. Ah, but to fall back into the eternal bliss that was sleep.

"Mipsy is not knowing! Mipsy is sorry, Master Snape!" she answered fretfully, and I sighed and waved her off.

"Tel him I'll be there soon enough," I instructed her, and she nodded and disappeared with a small ' _pop_ '.

I checked my watch. 2:48. Lovely. I'd gotten less than four hours of sleep. Albus better have a damn good reason for getting me up. If this was just another beard incident, I wouldn't hesitate to murder him.

I hastily pulled my outer robes over my nightshirt, forgoing the usual professor's attire of a white shirt, black tie, and black pants. Albus had seen me in worse, and if any students were still up they would be too busy fearing for their lives to worry about what I was wearing under my robes.

I slipped my boots on and the laces tied themselves automatically. I grabbed the half-empty cup of tea I'd left on my nightstand and chugged it down, before rushing out the door.

All in all, six minutes from being woken up to leaving my quarters, and another five to get to Albus' office, thanks to judicious use of secret passages and a fast walking pace.

Albus was waiting with Minerva of all people, who scowled when she saw me. She was wearing her usual outer robes, which were open over a tartan nightgown.

That was one thing that hadn't changed in the past few weeks. She was still peeved at me. I supposed that had something to do with all the detentions I'd been assigning Potter, but I needed to maintain the illusion of regular occlumency lessons before the holidays. I hardly had time to worry about Minerva's feelings at the moment, however.

"Albus, what happened?" I asked, proud of myself for being only slightly out of breath.

"Arthur Weasley was attacked tonight," Albus informed me gravely. His eyes were lacking their characteristic twinkle, although his nightshirt was doing more than enough twinkling to make up for it.

"What happened?" I asked. Attacked, not killed. That meant he was still alive. But the attack must have been serious, considering the grave expressions on their faces.

"He was on guard in the Department of Mysteries when he was bitten by Voldemort's snake."

Nagini. She had some rather powerful venom in her. I'd seen her murder multiple wizards with ease. "But he's still alive?" I asked faintly, my mind still wrapped up in memories of Nagini's deadly attacks.

"Harry saw it happen," Albus said grimly.

That got my attention. " _What_?" I asked, adrenaline chasing away the last vestiges of sleep from my system. What the fuck was the Dark Lord doing?

"He had a  _vision_ ,  _Severus_ ," Minerva said in disapproval. "I thought  _you_  were teaching him occlumency!" She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at me. It was the sort of glare that might have given me nightmares when I was a first-year, but I'd since faced down four incarnations of the Dark Lord… (Although Quirrel hadn't exactly inspired terror, and I hadn't known he was hosting the Dark Lord at the time.)

"Occlumency is a delicate skill and can hardly be mastered overnight," I replied automatically. Inwardly, my mind was reeling. The Dark Lord had… Had what, saved Arthur Weasley? Why?

"Where is Potter now?" I asked, trying not to sound too suspicious (which was what I felt) or too eager (which no doubt Minerva would be looking for).

"Back in his dorm," Albus said with a sigh. "The Weasley children have all been sent to Grimmauld Place, but it's too much of a risk to send Harry there until break starts. Dolores would simply never allow it."

"She does have a habit of inconveniencing people," I noted dryly. We'd been on a third date last week. She'd clearly been expecting a kiss, but I… I couldn't bring myself to do it.

Minerva sniffed loudly. It was clearly aimed at me, but I had no idea what it was supposed to mean. I hesitantly decided to ignore her.

"Once the break begins, Harry will be able to join his friends," Albus informed me.

That was the reason I'd been keeping up the pretence of occlumency lessons, as a matter of fact. To give me a reason to continue them over the break. The thought of the Dark Lord alone in Grimmauld Place was truly frightening, and I wanted to be able to keep an eye on him. Even if it meant suffering the company of Sirius Black.

It said a lot about Albus' (and my, although I was embarrassed to admit it) priorities that the conversation had managed to drift away from the man that had just been attacked. "And what of Arthur?" I asked.

"He's been taken to Saint Mungo's. I have hope that we found him in time, but truly his condition is not yet certain."

That gave me an even better idea than occlumency lessons. "I may be able to brew an antivenin," I said slowly. This was actually true. I'd been toying with the idea for a while, as a sort of puzzle for myself. "If there is any venom still in his veins that I can have access to."

Albus looked relieved, and Minerva looked marginally less furious. "Could you?" he asked pleadingly, and his hopeful gaze left me uncertain.

"I can make no promises," I warned him. "But even if I can't make a true antivenin, I can likely brew up  _something_ that will help."

The hope now tempered to a more realistic level, Albus gave me a tired nod. "Any little bit helps, Severus."

"I won't be able to do it here, with Umbridge in the castle," I stated.

"Why not?" Minerva asked quickly, before Albus could say anything. He looked at her with an amused glance, but she didn't notice. She was too busy glaring suspiciously at me.

"Because she loves Christmas," I replied in disgust. This was also true (and another reason I was desperate to get out of the castle for the holidays). "She wouldn't stop raving about it on our last outing." Date. I couldn't bring myself to say it.

"You may use Grimmauld Place," Albus said, and the evaluating expression was thankfully gone. Although the amused quirk of his lips that replaced it was almost worse.

"Does she expect you to celebrate with her?" Minerva asked curiously. I was relieved that she had asked. I'd been desperate to complain to her about Umbridge.

I shook my head. "She doesn't want to advertise  _our relationship_  to the students, but the holidays have left her in abnormally high spirits. I'm worried she may be…" Actually, now that I was discussing it, I suddenly found that I didn't want to be having this conversation at all.

Albus seemed to understand what I wasn't saying, because he suddenly snorted.

"I see," Minerva said primly, and I wondered if she actually did. I half hoped she didn't. "Well, this conversation has been enlightening, but if that's all Albus, I'm going to return to bed."

Albus nodded. "Good night," he said, as she left the room.

I eyed the chair she'd vacated longingly, but alas, I would need to make the trek back down to my quarters before I'd be able to relax. I desperately wanted to return to bed.

"Severus," Albus said slowly, before I could dismiss myself. Of course there was something else.

"Yes?" I asked, hoping to convey the depths of my exhaustion to him.

"Dolores may prove troublesome over the next few days," he informed me.

"Is that so unusual?" I commented, although I had a sinking feeling I knew where this was going.

"The reason I bring it up is because I may need you to… intervene, on the students' behalf, of course."

Of course. It was always on the students' behalf. Whore yourself out, Severus. It's for the  _students_.

"I'll do what I can," I replied stiffly. Likely I would turn out to not be able to do much at all, alas.

"That's all I ask," Albus asked, looking relieved.  _All_ , he said. As if it were some trivial thing he was asking me to do. The deeper I got into this false relationship with Umbridge, the more difficult it would be for me to extract myself. And yet Albus kept pushing, each time forcing me onto a new level of discomfort.

"Then I shall return to bed," I said tiredly, wondering if Albus knew just how much he was asking of me. He must. The man practically knew everything. Although these days the list of things Albus Dumbledore didn't know was growing frighteningly long.

I retreated back to my room with a sick stomach and a heavy heart. I could only hope the next few days weren't as bad as I feared.

* * *

What I failed to remember, of course, is that even though the universe excels at dramatic irony, real life is often stranger and more concerning than any literature would have you believe. So as it turned out… my hopes were  _not_  ironically subverted.

Over the next few days, Umbridge was no more troublesome than usual. In fact, she was nicer than I'd ever seen her. She didn't assign a single detention, not even to Potter.

I actually found this far more unsettling than if she  _had_  become increasingly difficult.

Of course, I didn't have much time to worry about this, for soon the term ended, and most of the students disappeared.

I'd convinced Albus to let me be the one to take Potter to Grimmauld Place on Saturday, the day after the other students left. I would have wanted to leave immediately after classes ended, but Albus thought it was best to let Umbridge think Potter was still in the castle. At least for however long we could keep the deception going. She'd clearly shown she wasn't averse to risking his relatives' lives in an attempt to get rid of him, and as frightful as they were, they hardly deserved to get their souls sucked out. Or at least, that was Albus' argument. I was willing to go along with this since it furthered my own needs.

Arthur was stable, although the venom was making healing difficult, as it always did in magical snake bites. Sort of like a magic anti-coagulate. His road to recovery would likely be long, and I was sure that I would be able to come up with something to help, even if it didn't cure him.

I certainly wouldn't consider the man a friend, but he was always kind to me, and treated me with respect. I'd never known him in school, and perhaps that would have changed things, but instead we'd met for the first time as two soldiers in war. There was always a certain camaraderie that developed between people thrown into stressful situations together, and I knew that I would help him if it was within my power to do so.

It was sort of a strange feeling, actually.

Of course, the biggest downside of waiting until Saturday to leave was that I had no excuse not to attend the annual staff Christmas party.

The Christmas party was always held in the evening after the students left, and many professors started celebrating the second the students set foot on the train. The few students that had stayed behind were generally left in the care of the remaining prefects and head students, and the faculty all gathered in the staff room to complain about them and get pissed.

It might have even been a fun event, if not for the fact that I was forced to interact with about ten times as many people as I actually wanted to.

No amount of complaining had convinced Albus to let me leave early. Albus had  _insisted_  that Potter be seen at breakfast the next day. In fact, if it was possible, Albus wanted Potter to eat a meal here every  _few_  days. To no one's surprise, he'd asked me to chauffeur the boy around.

I would have complained about the added stress, but truthfully it was better for me to be seen in the castle occasionally, and I knew that was part of Albus' reasoning in giving me the task. Not to mention, suffering Grimmauld Place in order to keep an eye on the Dark Lord was one thing, but if he wasn't even there, then truly there was no point.

Regardless, I had bigger concerns at the moment.

I stepped warily into the staff room, which had been expanded to thrice its usual size. The middle of the room had been cleared, and the floor transfigured into a dance floor. There were fairy lights drifting slowly around the room, and gold and silver streamers snaking their way around the walls. Someone had even created a life-size ice sculpture of the four founders, who were engaged in a mock duel against each other, and every so often I saw an ice shard fly off where one of them had injured another.

A giant Christmas tree stood in a corner of the room, with a small collection of gifts underneath. Albus always bought presents for the staff every year, although we wouldn't be able to open them until Christmas morning anyway.

Not that I particularly needed to. The man got me a thick pair of wool socks every year. That was the reason I used a box for my socks instead of a drawer, honestly. My collection had grown so large they simply wouldn't all  _fit_. And if I left my socks in a magically expanded space, I was sure they'd all be gone within a month. Socks were very good at slipping between cracks in dimensions and disappearing.

"Severus!" Filius said grandly, sweeping his arms about in an exaggerated motion. He staggered over to me, and settled himself far too close for my liking.

Perturbed, I leaned away slightly. Was he already drunk? What was I saying, of course he was. As I would be as well, if I weren't trying to quit.

"Isn't it a beautiful day?" he said, with an almost dreamy expression on his face.

"Is it?" I asked hesitantly. True, the students were gone…

"Yes!" he cried gleefully, and let out a drunken giggle.

"You seem more relaxed than usual, considering the recent addition to our staff," I noted dryly. How could he possibly be this cheerful attending a party at which Dolores Umbridge would soon be making an appearance? I honestly would rather spend more hours in  _class_  than trying to avoid her advances under the mistletoe.

"Didn't you hear?" Filius said in excitement. "She—"

"Dolores will not be attending the party today," Albus interrupted, and Filius pouted at having his thunder stolen.

"She won't be attending?" I repeated, and I felt something I had not felt in a long time — pure, unadulterated hope. Was this what true happiness was? Had I finally found bliss?

"She was not invited," Albus informed me, and Filius practically cackled in satisfaction.

Albus… hadn't invited her. Albus had  _not_  invited her. Umbridge would  _not_  be attending the staff Christmas party. Life had meaning.

"Very good," I murmured, and Albus beamed.

"I've warded this corridor so that she should keep away from it, but we should keep an eye out nonetheless," Albus added, but that was a small price to pay.

Suddenly, more of the staff piled in, and I felt my momentary elation evaporate. Oh right, I still was being forced to interact with the  _rest_  of my colleagues for a solid three hours. A daunting task at best, even if they were individually less loathsome. I moved over to a corner of the room, and settled awkwardly underneath a collection of gently spinning baubles.

This was still better than teaching, but only just barely. Ah, to be sitting alone in my room, drinking myself into a stupor. Or maybe just having a cup of tea. If only I hadn't tried to drink myself to death only a month ago, then maybe this evening would be almost tolerable. But alas, here I was, clean and sober.

All right, there had been that slight setback a few weeks ago when I'd been helping the Dark Lord collect ingredients, but honestly I hadn't been planning to drink the gin when I bought it, and the only reason I  _had_  was because of the magic.

That was what I was telling myself, at least.

"Severus!" Vector called out, as if she hadn't seen me at lunch only a few hours ago. "Isn't this wonderful? A whole evening without Dolores!"

"I didn't realise you made a habit of spending the evenings with her," I commented lightly, and Vector laughed uproariously.

"You're such a wit, Severus!" she said, waving her hand. Then she whirled off towards the table that had been set up with drinks. Hmm.

"Severus," Minerva said neutrally, joining me in my corner.

I was already exhausted from so much social interaction, and it'd only been ten minutes. I could feel a headache building.

"Minerva," I replied, wondering what she would say. Was she still mad? Especially now that I'd be spending Christmas with the boy? Merlin, that sounded bad. I would have to take care to never put it that way.

"You must be relieved to have an evening to yourself," she said, and I found myself absurdly grateful for the olive branch she extended towards me.

"For some definition of 'to myself'," I replied dryly, and Minerva's lips quirked slightly.

"Well, away from your paramour, at least."

I shuddered at the word. "Don't remind me."

"What are you going to do about her?" she asked curiously.

"Do about her?" I repeated in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"You can't keep pretending to date her forever," Minerva pointed out. "Eventually she's going to realise something's wrong."

"Albus wants me to continue the deception as long as possible," I answered with a sigh. "And truthfully, at this point I'm starting to worry about what would happen if I tried to end things."

"You're worried she would seek revenge?" Minerva asked in concern.

"Perhaps," I admitted. "There are many ways she could make my life unpleasant. Or perhaps she would try to find some way to force me into continuing the relationship. I think she is rather used to getting what she wants."

Minerva snorted. "I could believe that."

We fell into an awkward silence, and shortly after Minerva drifted back into the party. I felt an odd pang of loss as she left me alone, and I realised that I must be regretting the loss of the easy camaraderie that we had so recently shared. I didn't understand it. We'd been friends for years now. How could one little incident be enough to break those bonds?

How could something so inconsequential come between us?

The answer, of course, was that she didn't think it was inconsequential at all. She undoubtedly considered it a breach of trust, although I hoped that she would come to forgive me completely in time, and things would once more return to the way they had been.

Or maybe our friendship was irrevocably broken, and time would only drag us further apart.

I glanced over longingly at the bottles of alcohol, so lovingly arranged on the table across from me. It wasn't worth it, of course. What was that momentary respite against all the potential consequences I would face from letting it go too far? Being a spy had taught me to always be aware of my weaknesses, lest they kill me, and I knew that once I started, I wouldn't be able to stop.

Although hadn't I stopped a few weeks ago, when the malevolent energies in my room had caused me to imbibe? I had stopped then, even under extreme circumstances, so surely I would be able to manage just a few drinks at a Christmas party?

My mental debate was interrupted by Vector sidling up to me.

"All alone, Severus?" she asked playfully, and I glanced down at the drink in her hand. It was strong, almost empty, and I suspected it was hardly her first.

"Yes." I kept my reply short in an attempt to dissuade further conversation, but the way she leaned in closer to me suggested that it had not, in fact, worked.

"Now isn't that a shame?" she said breathily. I hazarded a guess that she was trying to make her voice sound more attractive, and I could recognise objectively that she was succeeding. However, the intimacy only made me feel more uncomfortable.

"Not really," I responded, and she laughed. Was she misreading my disinterest as me merely being coy? Or perhaps she thought we were playing a game?

Vector was an attractive woman — highly intelligent and forceful of personality — but it had been a long time since I had been interested in romance of any sort, and now especially I found myself rather preoccupied. The Dark Lord, teaching, unraveling mysteries — these simply took up too much of my cognitive abilities to be able to devote my time to anything else as well.

Of course, I also didn't feel comfortable  _sharing_  any of that. So instead I simply said: "I realise I'm the only younger man on the staff, but I highly suspect I cannot offer you any of what I believe you're looking for."

Vector pouted at me. "Oh, all right," she said, and heaved out a dramatic sigh. "I must say, I never realised how lonely this job would be when I took it."

Her words startled me with how much I agreed with them. "It can be difficult," I agreed, feeling more relaxed now that she'd stopped looking at me so intently.

"It's not just the fact that there's hardly anyone else my age here — it's also such a busy job that it can be hard to get away. How am I supposed to meet people when I hardly ever leave the castle?"

"I cannot offer you any advice," I informed her. "I haven't met anyone new in years."

Vector smiled slightly at me. "You do have a bit of a reputation for being a loner, don't you. How do you do it? How have you managed here by yourself for over a decade? I've only been here a couple years and I feel like I'm slowly fading away, or— or disappearing into obscurity. "

I hesitated, but although she seemed surprisingly articulate, I suspected she must be quite drunk indeed to be so emotionally honest. So I decided that perhaps there was no harm in replying honestly as well. "It felt that way for quite a while, I think. The first years I was here were difficult, to say the least. I've never had many friends, and the ones I did have either died in the war or drifted away from me after I started here. The difference is that I never  _minded_ , truthfully. It felt— it was a relief to no longer be responsible for anything more than educating idiots. There were no expectations on me because no one cared what I did. There was no one to hold me accountable for anything I chose to do in my personal life, and I was finally free to do what  _I_ wanted.

"I only started working here because it was one of the only professional opportunities available to me at the time, and certainly if I had been able to choose I would never have decided to become a teacher. But it's sufficient to keep me fed, and I do get a small amount of funding for original research. I suppose I've made a few friends on the staff as well, and I find that to be sufficient."

"You don't get lonely?" Vector asked, wide-eyed. She seemed enraptured by my words, although I wondered how closely she was actually paying attention.

"I have plenty to keep me busy," I answered truthfully.

"But other people, you don't miss them?" she pressed.

"No," I replied simply, and she fell silent.

"Well, Severus," she said finally, looking at me with a peculiar expression. "You've given me a lot to think about."

Had I? I had no idea what she meant by that.

"A change of pace for you, I'm sure," I replied automatically, and she shook her head indulgently.

"Never change," she told me, with a hint of wonder in her voice, and wandered away.

Never change — I supposed I could do that.

The party dragged on, occasionally punctuated by memorable bits of excitement. A drunk Hagrid giving Filius a ride on his shoulders; Minerva absolutely destroying Albus at cards; Pomona singing us the entirety of the penultimate song from Tristan and Isolde.

And then finally —  _finally_  — I was free to return to my room and enjoy the quiet that being alone brings.

It was ten o'clock, which meant that I would need to retreat to bed sooner rather than later, but I found myself in a sense too  _tired_  to go to bed.

My mind was still turning over my conversation with Vector. I felt both embarrassed by my honesty and… relieved, perhaps, to finally put to words something that I'd never even realised I was feeling.

Ultimately, it was irrelevant. Vector would either remember or she wouldn't, but it likely wouldn't affect my life much either way.

I leaned back in my favourite armchair, and stared at the ceiling. If this were a Muggle castle, there would have been cobwebs, or dust from the mortar holding the stones together, or maybe even insects. Instead, however, Hogwarts was steeped in magic, and the ceiling was flawless. Basic insect repelling wards kept all non-magical insects away, and the wards on my personal quarters tended to keep any magical creatures out (although not always). There was a thin grey area of creatures that were too magical to be kept away by the basic wards, but not magical enough to register on my personal wards, but Mipsy cleaned in here so often that they had no chance of surviving.

There was a knock on my door.

I debated ignoring it, and simply going to bed, but I felt a flash of magic (the equivalent of knocking on the wards, I supposed), and recognised the magical signature with a faint tremor of fear.

I hastened to the door and pulled it open. There was no one there.

A moment later, someone pulled me away and shut the door, and the Dark Lord appeared in a swirl of mythical enchanted object.

"Hello professor," he said with a mischievous grin, and I rather thought I might be sick.

"Good evening, Harry," I responded politely. What did it say about me that I was starting to get used to that name? It wasn't something I'd ever called Potter, and in a way it helped me differentiate the two in my mind, even though they looked the same. "How can I help you?"

"I'm just here for a bit of a chat," the Dark Lord said, but there was still that gleam in his eye.

"About what?" I asked, as the Dark Lord kicked off his shoes and made himself comfortable on my sofa. Merlin.

"The Order of the Phoenix, I think."

Ah. That. I weighed my options. How much would be safe to tell him? The Order was focused on defeating the  _elder_  Dark Lord, and if the one in front of me had the same goal, surely it wouldn't hurt to share information? But this was still the Dark Lord, and telling him about Albus' plans went against every fibre of my being.

"What do you wish to know?" I asked carefully, and the Dark Lord rolled his eyes.

"Calm down, Severus. Merlin, you'd think I asked you to murder a baby."

I flinched at the words, but he ignored me and continued on.

"I simply want to know what I can expect from this holiday at their headquarters. And… tell me more about Arthur Weasley."

That was manageable, I supposed. "The Order doesn't tell Potter much, so you won't be expected to know anything. Likely they will keep you out of meetings, which Potter would have protested, but Black has been an advocate of telling Potter more information about current events." The Dark Lord had access to Potter's memories, didn't he? I couldn't imagine a legilimens as skilled as him — one who was  _already in the boy's mind_  — couldn't get whatever information he wanted.

"And what  _is_  happening?" the Dark Lord asked curiously.

"Truly, not much. The elder Dark Lord —" the Dark Lord smirked at the name. "—is after the prophecy, and the headmaster is doing his best to keep it away from him." I hesitated for a moment, but I couldn't see the harm in adding: "That's why Arthur Weasley was injured. He was guarding the Department of Mysteries."

"Hmm. I thought that corridor looked familiar. Did you know my counterpart has been sending me dreams about it?"

I had  _not_  known that. "What?" I asked, startled. Albus hadn't said anything. Did he suspect? Was that why he'd suggested the occlumency lessons? Because he knew that the elder Dark Lord would try to take advantage of their connection?

"Yes, it's rather pathetic actually. He has no idea that I'm not actually Potter."

To be fair, no one had any idea. Except for me, and I wondered if I'd be better off not knowing. If I'd never gotten further involved in Potter's life. How much would I have noticed? I was sure I'd never suspect the truth, although perhaps the not knowing would have driven me mad.

"Tell me more about Arthur Weasley," the Dark Lord commanded.

"It's likely Potter knows him better than I do," I admitted, "as I've only interacted with him in the context of Order meetings. My impression of him is that he's hard-working and fair, and genuinely cares about making the world a better place."

"Hmm." The Dark Lord settled into a quiet contemplation, and I sank back into my armchair.

I glanced nervously over at the Dark Lord, wondering if I was brave enough to ask the question I was desperate to ask. I was hardly a Gryffindor, prone to foolish acts of recklessness, but I was painfully curious…

"Why did you save him?" I finally asked, my voice coming out soft and quiet even in the stillness of the dungeon.

The Dark Lord looked over at me in amusement. "Why, Severus? Why not? I can kill him at any time, but chances to save his life don't come up very often."

Immediately I felt foolish for being so anxious about asking, and also for even asking at all. The Dark Lord thrived on instilling a sense of debt in people.

He seemed to grow bored of me not long after, and left. I was incredibly thankful, as I'd been far too tired to safely navigate the social minefield that was the Dark Lord's presence.

I slept deeply that night, and the next morning stopped off at my office to pick up some grading before heading to breakfast.

Once I stepped into my office, however, I instantly got the impression that something was— off, perhaps.

I cast a critical eye around the room, examining the corners and shadows for potential hiding spots. When I didn't see any signs of another presence, I started to take a closer look at all the surfaces.

Finally, I realised the problem and felt instantly foolish for not noticing sooner: there was a fine, glittery substance on the floor next to my desk. I cast a bubblehead charm around my face, and then leaned in to take a closer look.

I didn't have to examine it long before I determined that it was fairy dust, which left me, quite frankly, baffled. If this had been some sort of attack on me, then it was an incredibly foolish one. Fairy dust was a very low-powered ingredient, with pretty much no harmful effects whatsoever. Additionally, the placement of the dust suggested that it had been spilled off of my desk and then not cleaned up properly.

But I hadn't been working with fairy dust recently, had I?

Ah… Albus, who'd already demonstrated on multiple occasions his ability to enter my wards unscathed, had likely been planning a prank on me. Fairy dust was a common prank component, since fairy dust had a propensity to cause low-level but difficult to reverse magical effects.

I would have to keep a closer eye on my belongings going forward. The last thing I wanted was to be distracted by a prank during the wrong moment. I was juggling quite a few things, maybe of which were extremely delicate. One wrong move, and the entire house of cards would come tumbling down.

I Vanished the fairy dust with a quick jab of my wand, and shoved a selection of papers into the wizard space of my pocket. The Dark Lord and I would be leaving for Grimmauld Place right after breakfast, and we'd be taking the floo in the headmaster's office. It would be more convenient for me to not have to return.

I'd already packed a small travel bag, which had been shrunk and placed in my pocket as well, so I was fully prepared for the trip. Physically, at least. Mentally, I was less sure about.

Being stuck in a dirty house with Black and the Dark Lord? Oh, and of course I couldn't forget the grieving Weasleys as well. Tensions would be running high, and I would have to do my best to avoid becoming a target, as well as keep an eye on the Dark Lord.

Truthfully, I didn't think he would really do anything dangerous (and could I even stop him if he wanted to?), but the thought of leaving him alone unsupervised in the Order headquarters was extremely disquieting. And perhaps someday if this madness ever ended, I could offer this as proof to Albus that I really had tried to manage the situation.

I arrived in the middle of breakfast, and was unsurprised to find that many of my colleagues had not made it yet. Likely more than a few of them were still sleeping off the party, although Minerva and Vector were both here.

Vector didn't even glance at me as I sat down, so intent was she on staring off into space. Her toast was untouched, although her tea was almost empty. She seemed to be lost in quiet contemplation.

Minerva was the opposite. She clearly had quiet the hangover, because she was glowering at everything and her plate was piled with greasy sausages and runny eggs. She hadn't started eating it, however, and instead was dipping toast into her tea.

I, quite frankly, found the thought of eating soggy toast disgusting, but she didn't seem to mind it at all. If she'd found a hangover trick that worked, then I could hardly begrudge her for it, I supposed.

Umbridge was also here, and she kept glancing over at the Gryffindor table where the Dark Lord was sitting, quietly chatting with Longbottom.

I idly spread some marmalade on a piece of toast before I suddenly noticed something rather unsettling: Umbridge was glancing at the Dark Lord in  _triumph_.

Had she done something? And if so, why hadn't she told me about it? Surely she would have bragged to me about it already?

I tried to make eye contact with Minerva so that I could point out Umbridge's behaviour, but she was too busy vigorously stabbing her sausages with her fork. I decided to let her be.

I would have to try to convince Umbridge to let me in on her plan. It wouldn't be too difficult, I imagined. She'd never proven to be able to resist my charms before, so I would simply have to bat my eyelashes at her, so to speak.

It would be trivial.

So of course, it was not trivial. Here was that delicious dramatic irony I had been deprived of earlier — my own hubris rendering me incompetent. I'd grown so used to Umbridge being an easy target that the second she refused my inquiries I found myself flat-footed.

"Why do you want to know, Severus," Umbridge asked cooly, whereas before she would have been already gushing about how brilliant and devious she was.

I was rather taken aback by her attitude change. "I merely thought—"

"Oh, you  _thought_ , did you?" she sniped at me.

I paused for a moment, trying to mentally calculate how best to navigate this apparent mine-field that I'd stumbled into. "Is something the matter?" I finally asked, giving up any pretence of subtlety.

Umbridge glared at me. "Nothing at all," she said, in the most passive-aggressive tone I'd ever heard in my life. She pushed her plate away dramatically and stood up. It barely changed her height. With one last nasty look at me, she turned on her heel and marched out of the room.

I then made the unfortunate mistake of glancing over at the Gryffindor table, where the Dark Lord was watching me with barely-concealed amusement.

I hastily looked away again, and found that many people were in fact staring at me. They turned away once they'd realised I'd caught them staring, but it was too late. My humiliation was complete.

"She found out about the party," Vector said, looking at me in something akin to pity. Except usually pity didn't look like it was on the verge of laughter.

The party. Amazing how I was being punished for something I'd enjoyed so little. "Albus personally set the wards to keep her out, did he not?" I replied, in mild disbelief. Surely the headmaster couldn't have failed so utterly?

"He did, but Peeves ratted on us. He seems to enjoy taunting her a little too much, if you ask me." Vector was apparently finished with the conversation, which unfortunately meant my usual response of "I didn't ask you." would have to go un-uttered. At this point it would just look petty.

I finished my breakfast efficiently and retreated to the headmaster's office. Albus was alone when I strode in dramatically, which rather meant the effect was wasted.

"Umbridge knows about the staff party," I said, before he even had the chance to utter a greeting.

He stared at me in consideration for a moment. "That is rather unfortunate," he said mildly.

"She's rather angry at me," I further added, and Albus nodded slowly.

"I suppose she would be," he replied. "Never fear, Severus. I'm sure she'll forgive you in time."

"I don't give a niffler's arse whether she forgives me," I exclaimed, and sat down heavily in the plush armchair opposite Albus' desk. "This seems to me a perfect opportunity to divest myself of the situation without me having to be the one to end it. Now she can think the whole thing was her idea."

Albus frowned, undoubtedly in disapproval, the old wart. "The information you've collected for us has been very valuable," he said, as if that would change my mind at all.

"How much more information could you possibly need? She's really not that interesting." I was  _tired_  of the whole stupid game. I hated being forced to go on dates, and I was sick to death of the increasing uncertainty in the status of our relationship, especially when I didn't want there to  _be_  a relationship at all. Not to mention that the students would eventually notice something. It was impossible to keep any sort of secret in this fucking castle.

"So you know everything of her plans?" Albus said pointedly, looking at me over the top of his half-moon glasses.

I… most certainly did not. This whole thing today had started because she was clearly planning something with Potter that I hadn't known about. And she'd looked so  _smug_  about it as well, which meant it was possibly something that would actually work. "Not exactly," I admitted, although the realisation made me more angry if anything. I knew my anger and distaste were justified, but what could I do about it? There was information to be gathered, and that was rather in my job description. First line, actually. In fact, it could be considered the entire description.

Thankfully, at that moment the Dark Lord arrived to distract me from my anger.

He stepped into the office with the usual careless swagger that Potter had used, and for a second my heart almost skipped a beat.

But of course, the Dark Lord would have to be on his best behaviour around Albus. Albus, who was already suspicious and would undoubtedly recognise any mistakes.

"Sir?" the Dark Lord said politely, and I wondered at Albus' refusal to meet the boy's gaze. I felt a strange rush of adrenaline. Did he already suspect that Potter was in fact the Dark Lord? But no— there were too many loose threads in that line of reasoning. For one, the occlumency lessons—

"Are we leaving now?" he asked cheerfully, disrupting me from my train of thought.

"Yes," I answered brusquely.

"In a moment, Harry," Albus said, giving me an unimpressed look. "I wanted to ask you about your occlumency lessons first."

"What about them?" the Dark Lord asked, the picture of youthful innocence.

"How are you finding the subject?" Albus leaned forward and steepled his fingers together.

"Oh, it's fine," the Dark Lord said, with a slight shrug. "It's really hard, but, you know, I think I'm getting better."

"Do you feel you're getting adequate instruction with Professor Snape?"

"I'm right here!" I protested, feeling slighted.

Albus gave me a long look. "I am well aware of that, Severus."

Potter's face looked over at me for a moment, a slight smile on its lips. Then he turned back towards Albus. "I think so," the Dark Lord replied. "Although I guess I haven't really got anything to compare it to. It's so different from anything I've done before."

Albus nodded, and he seemed slightly more relaxed than he had been a moment ago. I wanted to scream at him. The Dark Lord was sitting  _right in front of him_  and he didn't even notice. Although… I saw he still wasn't making eye contact with the boy.

"That it is. Are you progressing well?"

"Er— I think so. Did you want to test me?"

Albus actually smiled at that, and he shook his head slightly. "There's no need for that. I'm sure you've been doing a fine job. In fact—"

He was interrupted by an owl tapping on the window. An absent wave of his hand, and the owl flew through the glass.

"It's from the Ministry," Albus said with a frown, taking the letter from the bird. The owl flew away again, but we all ignored it, staring at the ornate letter that Albus carefully opened.

He scanned the contents, and his face grew pale. "It seems, Severus, that one of Dolores' schemes has just come to fruition."

Shit. Did this mean I was going to have to kiss her?


	15. Harry Learns to Drive

**Chapter 15 — Harry Learns to Drive**

I stared at Albus in mute horror. "What scheme?" I asked, my mind already racing to try to come up with some idea of what it could be. I glanced over at the Dark Lord, who looked mildly concerned but was likely hiding amusement, given the way he was eyeing me. Although Umbridge's recent stares meant that the scheme likely involved Potter, not me (much to my immense gratitude).

"Ah, well, it concerns Harry here," Albus admitted, looking over at the boy. "Harry, this may come as a bit of a shock to hear, but your family actually owns some property in the north of England."

"What?" the Dark Lord asked, a suitably dumbfounded expression on his face. "Why didn't anyone tell me?" he added, his tone turning indignant. I found myself surprised as well. I remembered there had been a manor, the one James Potter had grown up in, but it had burned down in the first war. That had been located near London, hadn't it?

Albus looked rather embarrassed. "Well, it's actually been lost."

The Dark Lord's probably-feigned indignant expression faded a little. "Lost?" he asked, in pure adolescent confusion. "How can a property be lost?"

"It was a protection spell that went rather awry. Back in the eighteenth century, experimental wards became very fashionable, and a great-great-grandfather of yours thought himself an expert. Unfortunately, the spell interacted catastrophically with  _another_  ward he'd placed around the house, and the whole thing completely disappeared. No one's been able to find it since."

I'd heard of wards interacting poorly with each other before, but never of an entire house disappearing because of it. I would have to research the effect more later; it sounded absolutely fascinating. Not to mention, a Potter  _would_  accidentally lose his entire house.

"But what does this have to do with Umbridge?" the boy asked, and neither of us corrected his lack of use of her title.

"The property has stayed hidden in part because the ward is still being powered by the family bloodline. As long as there is still a Potter left alive, the ward will continue functioning.

"However… Dolores has requested that the Ministry officially confiscate the property from you, which would also sever the ties the ward has to you, and whatever artefacts and treasures are in the house will be rescinded into the Ministry's control. Likely there is a large portion of your family history hidden in that house, and soon the Ministry will have full access to it."

The Dark Lord slumped back in his seat, looking dazed. I wondered how much of that was feigned. I myself was rather stunned by the tale. It seemed — it seemed completely barbaric of the Ministry to seize a private citizen's assets like that. And worse, this was clearly nothing more than Umbridge's idea of revenge. I could see no other reason why they would go to so much trouble merely for whatever artefacts the Potters had once held.

Of course, as far as revenge went, it was pretty good. Suitably devastating to a young boy who had lost his family,  _and_  would result in a tidy profit for the Ministry. I was reluctantly impressed by how neat the whole scheme was.

"How can I stop her?" the Dark Lord asked, full of grim determination. Albus would likely recognise it as Potter's, but I could see the same gleam in the boy's eye that the Dark Lord had always held when discussing his plans to topple the Ministry.

Albus shook his head sadly. "The Ministry has used a little-known clause that says they can claim any property that's abandoned for too many years. Unfortunately, that means that what they're doing is perfectly legal, and the only way to stop them would be to actually  _find_  the house and set foot in it again. Then, and only then, their attempts to seize the property will fail and the wards will stay under your control. But the house is very much lost, and there is little chance of finding it."

What Albus didn't know, of course, was that he was talking to an adolescent version of a sixty-five-year-old dark lord, and not, as he thought, a boy with only four years of magical schooling under his belt. If anyone could find the property, it would be the man currently wearing a teenager's body.

However, he put on a suitably dismayed expression for Albus' benefit.

"I'm so sorry, dear boy," Albus said gravely, and the genuine emotion was clear on his face. "I know you've been longing for any connection to your family, but I'm afraid there's simply nothing we can do."

"I guess," the Dark Lord muttered dejectedly.

"But I'm sure Sirius will be more than happy to spend the holidays regaling you with tales of your parents' adventures. And  _mis_ adventures," Albus said consolingly, trying to cheer the boy up. I felt uncomfortable seeing the earnestness on Albus' face; how  _genuine_  he was in his desire to see the boy happy. It was sincere in a way that Albus often didn't have, and all the more unsettling because it was the  _Dark Lord_  sitting across from him.

The Dark Lord managed a small smile. He really was quite good at playing Potter, although I supposed living in Potter's head would do that. If Potter really was still in there and aware of his surroundings, then it was possible the Dark Lord was simply looking into Potter's mind and reading what his reactions would be. It's what I would do, certainly.

"Are you ready to go, my boy?" Albus asked kindly, although the effect was ruined by the way he failed to meet the Dark Lord's eyes.

"Yeah," the Dark Lord answered glumly, and Albus reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a small tin of floo powder.

"Mine is one of the few fireplaces that isn't monitored," Albus informed us. "Take care,  _both_  of you."

"Yes sir," the Dark Lord replied, and I merely stayed silent.

I met Albus' gaze readily as I grabbed a pinch of floo powder from the tin.

"Be safe, Severus," he added softly, as I threw the powder into the fire. An automatically-said phrase whisked me away before I even had time to consider the strange melancholy in his tone, and soon I was too distracted by the sight of the Black family kitchen to worry much about Albus.

Black was sitting at the end of the table, hunched over a cup of tea. He looked up when I arrived, his miserable expression twisting into something hateful, before he settled on a harsh sneer.

"Snivellus," he said, with a roll of his eyes.

I didn't have time for this. The Dark Lord stepped out of the fire a moment later, and Black's features softened when he saw him.

"Harry!" he said, standing up suddenly and almost knocking his teacup over in his enthusiasm.

"Sirius!" the Dark Lord answered, with a wide smile of his own. It looked— genuine.

Black strode over to the "boy" in excitement and pulled him into a rough hug. The Dark Lord awkwardly hugged him back, sending me a smirk over Black's shoulder, but I found myself distracted by the way Black had enclosed him in something of a death grip.

The hug stretched on, and the Dark Lord started to look alarmed. "Sirius?" he asked nervously, trying to pull away but finding himself stuck tight.

Black drew a careful, shuddering breath, before managing to compose himself and pull away.

"Sorry, Harry," he apologised, not quite meeting the Dark Lord's eyes. "It's just been— with Arthur—"

"It's okay, Sirius." The Dark Lord patted him gently on the back. "I understand."

Did he? Did the Dark Lord have any concept of what it meant to genuinely care for another person? It didn't surprise me that Black was so invested in Arthur's health. I knew the Weasleys spent a lot of time here, and with Black stuck inside, he was probably increasingly grateful for the company.

I desperately wanted to leave this awkward  _family_  reunion, but at the same time I wasn't sure where to go. There must be a potions lab in this fucking house somewhere, but I'd never been there before.

"Everyone's at the hospital right now, but they should be back around lunch. In the meantime… Is Snape treating you all right?" Black asked, looking the Dark Lord up and down.

The Dark Lord rolled his eyes. " _Yes_ , Sirius, he's been fine."

"Why's he here, anyway? Dumbledore said he'd be staying? Even though it's  _my_  house and  _I_  should get say over who stays here." Black glared at me, as if it were somehow my fault. Which, to be fair, it was, but that didn't mean  _Black_  had the right to blame me for anything.

"He's brewing a potion to help Mister Weasley," the Dark Lord patiently explained. Seeing the Dark Lord play the role of Harry Potter was turning out to be quite educational. I'd never before imagined that the Dark Lord was even  _capable_  of patience. He was more of a curse first and ask questions later kind of person. "And he's going to keep helping me with occlumency."

"He's probably doing more damage to you on purpose, messing up your mind to make it easier for Voldemort—" I flinched at the name, partly because he'd said the Dark Lord's name  _right in front of the fucking Dark Lord_. "—to attack you. I bet he's put in a door or something to give him better access," Black muttered darkly. He was again ignoring the fact that I was standing right next to him.

"Sirius, Dumbledore trusts him," the Dark Lord said slowly, although clearly that meant fucking squat. It was dawning on me that Black was actually  _right_  about me. Well, not about the crazy occlumency conspiracy theories, but he was sort of right about the fact that I was working for the Dark Lord. And wasn't that a depressing thought. I needed to take a good, hard look at my life if this was the level I'd sunk to.

"Harry, you need to be careful around him. He could try to kill you at any moment!" Black insisted, gripping the Dark Lord by the shoulders and shaking him.

"O… kay…" the Dark Lord said, alarmed at the intensity of Black's gaze.

I was also alarmed, mostly because Black was still somehow ignoring the fact that I was literally  _standing_   _right next to him_.

"Sirius," the Dark Lord said, removing Black's hands from his shoulders with care. "I think I know what's going on here. Do you mind waiting in this room for a few moments while I go fetch something?"

"Of course, Harry," Black said, with a smile that was bordering on manic. "Anything you say."

"Of course," the Dark Lord muttered disparagingly. He looked over at me and raised, an eyebrow, then tilted his head towards the door slightly. I nodded slightly, and started following the Dark Lord out of the room.

"Whoa!" Black shouted, grabbing my arm as I tried to step past him. "Where do you think you're going?!"

"Sirius," the Dark Lord explained patiently, "Professor Snape is going to be coming with me."

"But—"

"Why don't you sit down and finish your tea?" the Dark Lord continued, in a soothing tone of voice. As if he were speaking to a wild animal.

Maybe he was. I had no fucking clue what was going on.

"Alright," Black said doubtfully, but he sat back down in his chair nonetheless. He looked vaguely dazed, and stared into his teacup in confusion.

We quietly left the room, and I closed the door to the kitchen behind us.

The Dark Lord led us up the stairs and down a hallway with all the confidence of someone who'd lived here half the summer. I felt distinctly uncomfortable at the reminder of how easily the Dark Lord had taken over Potter's life, but I supposed there were bigger concerns at the moment. He stopped at an ornate wooden door, and opened it to reveal a disused drawing room. He bid me enter, and then closed the door behind us.

"Black isn't usually like that," I said quietly, as we stood in the silent room. A thick layer of dust muffled my words, and I resisted the urge to sneeze, caused by the uncomfortable mildew smell.

"I know," the Dark Lord said, unconcerned. "He's being affected by one of my horcruxes."

"One of—  _how_?" I asked incredulously. Where the fuck had Black gotten one of the Dark Lord's horcruxes? And Merlin, how long had this been going on?

The Dark Lord cast a critical eye around the room. "I once had Regulus help me hide it. I suppose he betrayed me and stole it afterwards. Now I feel better about killing him."

Thankfully, I was too stunned to react. I felt nauseous. My head was spinning. Reg had— I'd known he must have done  _something_  to betray the Dark Lord, or at least, I'd assumed so, since the Dark Lord killed him. But now the Dark Lord was implying— or had Reg done something else that had gotten him killed, as well?

I'd always been reclusive, during my time as a death eater, but after Regulus had died I'd holed myself up completely. The Dark Lord had left me mostly alone during that time, although whether out of compassion or simply having more important things to do I honestly couldn't say. Regulus had been— He'd been a very good friend of mine, in the end, one of the closest friends I'd ever had.

Regulus was one of the reasons I'd joined the death eaters, and one of the reasons I'd left them. He'd been sly and clever in a way many Slytherins only pretended to be, but more kind-hearted than most Hufflepuffs I'd met. He'd struggled tremendously trying to live up to his parents' expectations— even heavier since his elder brother had turned out to be such a disappointment. Reg had worked twice as hard as everyone else, and what had it gotten him?

He'd been so nervous about joining the death eaters, in the weeks leading up to our induction ceremony. He'd had nightmares every night, and had spent all his free time in the library. He'd—

"Found it!" the Dark Lord called triumphantly, holding up a gaudy piece of jewellery. Upon closer inspection, it was maybe a locket of some sort, and there was a large 'S' stamped across the front.

I carefully stepped closer, and imagined that I could feel the dark aura coming from the horcrux.

"Hello, my darling," the Dark Lord said, cradling the locket carefully. "Mummy's home, now."

What the fuck. I stared at the Dark Lord with wide eyes, as he crooned gently to the piece of jewellery, which seemed to be— could it be  _nuzzling_ him? Merlin on a stick, I needed to get out of here.

"Poor Sirius. He's been cooped up in this house, with only my soul for company. No wonder he's gone mad."

The locket made a strange hissing sound, and the Dark Lord chuckled.

"You did a  _wonderful_  job. I shan't have to do much at all, now."

Oh Merlin. The Dark Lord was  _talking_ to his soul. And his soul was— talking back? Fuck. Couldn't he at least have had the decency to wait until he was alone? I felt extremely uncomfortable witnessing this.

I had so many questions, but I had no idea which ones were safe to ask and which ones would get me Crucio'd within an inch of my life.

I absently recognised the wisdom in just shutting up and not asking anything, but my resolve broke almost  _immediately_ , and I found myself asking "What are you going to do with it?"

The Dark Lord looked up at me and blinked, as if he'd somehow forgotten I was here. Christ, I should have just left the room when he was distracted.

"As nice a horcrux as it is — and aren't you just the  _best little horcrux_  — as it is right now, it also functions as a horcrux for my other self. So I'm going to eat it," the Dark Lord explained, with a careless shrug.

" _Eat_ —" I cut myself off. The Dark Lord stared at me in amusement as I stared back at him, disbelief and uncontrollable curiosity undoubtedly written across my face.

"Yes, Severus, I'm going to eat it. It's actually brilliant, because now my soul will be even larger and more powerful, and I quite like the idea of that." The Dark Lord paused, a contemplative smile on his face. "It's funny, really. I wouldn't even be able to re-absorb the horcrux at all if not for our darling Harry. You need to be able to feel regret, you see. And the woman I killed to make this horcrux was absolutely atrocious. She represented everything that was wrong with our society, and I was quite pleased to see her dead. But  _Harry_ — his soul is full of regret. Unsurprising for a teenager, I suppose. But I can just borrow a little of his, and—" the Dark Lord opened his mouth, far wider than he should have been able to. His jaw unhinged like a  _snake_  and the locket disappeared down his throat.

The Dark Lord's mouth clicked shut, and he smiled at me.

I felt— I felt my breakfast coming back up to greet me, but thankfully managed to squash it down for a second later the  _Dark Lord_  threw up, only instead of digested toast it was the locket.

"Wonderful," the Dark Lord said happily, and then shoved the shiny locket in his robes.

"Urk—" I uttered, but I managed to not toss up, so I forgave myself the slip.

"Shall we go see to Sirius?" the Dark Lord said, and I nodded fearfully. What else could I do?

* * *

The absence of the horcrux (or  _was_  it absent? It was simply relocated to inside the Dark Lord, right? Or had the re-absorption somehow changed its properties? I supposed that made sense, but I was still dreadfully confused) seemed to do Black a world of good, for he was in much better spirits the remainder of the day. He was even more polite to  _me_ , although it was obvious that it was merely a concession to his godson. Also known as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The man who had murdered his younger brother. Merlin, if Black ever found out about this, he would marry a Boggart.

The Weasleys returned in the early afternoon, but by then I had retreated to the potions lab in the basement that Black had so  _kindly_  seen me to. It was dank and dreary, but I was used to working in filthy places and with a few careful spells the room was at least functional.

I felt vaguely nervous leaving the Dark Lord alone, but he'd been at Hogwarts for months now and hadn't caused any trouble. Surely he'd be fine spending an afternoon with the family of the man he'd helped save… Potter wasn't friends with the youngest Weasley boy anymore anyway, so the Dark Lord wouldn't even have to act much.

I was sure it'd be fine.

I spent the day experimenting with an antivenin, and by the end I actually had a couple feasible ideas. There was no guarantee they would work, but there was no guarantee they  _wouldn't_ , and sometimes in potions that was all you could ask for.

The evening, however, left me with a conundrum. Black hadn't given me a bedroom (which was fine; I would just sleep in the one I always used to when I stayed here during the summers), but I had no idea what bedroom he'd given the Dark Lord, and likely the Dark Lord wouldn't know where I was staying. I felt I needed to  _check in_  on him, or debrief perhaps. It would feel strange simply going to bed without at least talking to him.

So I found myself wandering the house, taking care to stay away from Black's room. It was possible the Dark Lord's room was near there, in which case I would simply have to go to bed regardless, since the last thing I wanted was for Black to catch me wandering the halls of his home (however much he hated it).

A door next to me opened, and someone grabbed my arm and pulled me into the room before I could even draw my wand.

Of course, that someone was the Dark Lord, so it was infinitely preferable that I  _hadn't_  drawn my wand.

"Hello, Severus," the Dark Lord said, with a sardonic grin. "What brings you to my humble abode?"

The room was obviously meant for honoured guests of the Black family, for despite the thick layer of dust, the room still felt  _grand_. The ceilings were obviously enchanted to be higher, and the furniture was a heavy solid wood — it felt like the sort of room you might find in a castle.

Appropriate for a dark lord, I supposed, although Black obviously hadn't intended it that way. Perhaps the Dark Lord had chosen the room himself.

"I wanted to… to chat, I suppose," I said reluctantly, as I started to realise how utterly idiotic I sounded. Hopefully the Dark Lord wouldn't simply Crucio me and kick me out.

Instead, he smiled bemusedly and rolled his eyes. "Adorable. Can the Trace reach here?" he asked, and I was absurdly grateful for his change of subject.

"It did not when I was in school, but I am unsure if the wards have changed, and I do not know the ward scheme well enough to check."

"Hmm. It's probably fine, but I'll check tomorrow regardless. Give me your wand." He held out his hand expectantly, not even considering the possibility that I might refuse.

Which was all very well, since I knew I  _couldn't_  refuse. I handed it over with a horrible sense of trepidation, but the Dark Lord merely grinned and Vanished the dust that had accumulated. Then he handed the wand back to me.

"Thank you," I muttered, although I realised that I had just done  _him_  a favour. It hardly mattered. As disquieting as it was, the power hierarchy was clear, and the Dark Lord was so far above me we weren't even on the same list.

"I'm actually glad you decided to stop by," the Dark Lord said idly, flopping into a cushy-looking armchair. "It saves me the trouble of seeking you out."

"My bedroom is the fifth door on the right on the third floor," I informed him. Hopefully we would be less likely to be caught meeting there. If Minerva found out I'd been spending time in Potter's room over the holidays, she would ensure that I'd never be able to— well, it didn't matter. I would do my best to avoid such an eventuality.

"Thanks, I'm sure I'll stop by," the Dark Lord promised, with a coy smile that left me distinctly uncomfortable, especially given the train of thought I'd just been on. "I have some good news, and some bad news."

"Oh?"

"Well," the Dark Lord chuckled, "good news for me, at least. The bad news is for you though."

"How generous," I commented lightly, and the Dark Lord's lips twitched in appreciation of my eternal wit. I assumed, at least. If he was going to Crucio me into oblivion simply for sarcasm he likely would have done so by now.

"You're very welcome. The good news it that I believe I've come up with a solution to Umbridge's latest idiocy."

"You have?" I asked in astonishment. "Already?"

"Yes," the Dark Lord preened. "It was quite simple once I actually sat down and thought about it. The wards are based on this body, so it was simple enough to rig a tracking spell to use my blood to pin down where the wards are."

That sort of tracking spell was extremely dark, but more importantly… "Without a wand?"

"Not all magic is done with a wand, Severus," the Dark Lord lightly admonished, but from the smug expression on his face he clearly knew what an impressive magical feat that was to even someone with some knowledge of dark magic.

"That's brilliant," I said honestly, and the Dark Lord nodded graciously. "What's the bad news?"

"Well, the tracking spell can't be transported using magic, because it causes a surge as it gets closer to the destination. A broom would fail, apparating would likely get us splinched, and a portkey would be diverted off track Salazar knows where. So we'll have to drive."

"We?" I asked weakly.

The Dark Lord gave me a patronising look. "Of course, 'we'. Do you honestly think I would ever do something so boring on my own? Besides, you know how to drive, don't you?"

"Vaguely," I admitted. "Although it's been a long time, and I'm not sure how well I remember."

"That's fine. It's not that hard."

" _You_  know how to drive?" I asked, before I could help myself. Honestly, I was amazed my curiosity hadn't already gotten me killed. Although I'd never in my life found anything to be as curious about as I was about this incarnation of the Dark Lord.

The Dark Lord sniffed. "'Course I know how to drive. Muggles do it all the time; it's clearly not that hard."

That didn't actually inspire confidence in me, but considering the Dark Lord was a man of insane genius, I would give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Oh, and there's more bad news," he added lightly, giving me a sly look that I instantly dreaded.

"What?"

"Sirius is coming with us."

* * *

It was of course futile to try to talk the Dark Lord out of anything, and would likely only lead to death and destruction for any who attempted it. But when he said that Black would be accompanying us — I strongly considered.

In the end, I said nothing, although the Dark Lord gave me a darkly amused look that told me he knew exactly what I was thinking.

Somehow, the Dark Lord had also managed to scrounge up a car the next morning — and I found myself standing on the steps of Grimmauld Place glaring despondently at the wretched thing. We were still within in the wards, and thus out of sight of the passing Muggles, but I still felt strange being out in the open. And I was even  _more_  concerned by the reality of the car sitting in front of us. This was really happening. Fucking hell.

"Don't be so nervous, Severus," the Dark Lord chided. "It's perfectly safe."

"It's not the car I'm worried about," I stiffly replied, although the Dark Lord cast me a wretched grin. I supposed he already knew that.

"Sirius won't do anything too terrible," the Dark Lord remarked offhandedly.

The confidence in his voice gave me pause. "Black is content to let his godson drive around the country with limited protection using a device clearly built by dark magic?" No adult would ever let a teenager being hunted by the Dark Lord do anything of the sort, even with a chaperone…

"Don't worry, Severus," said the Dark Lord. "I've seen to it."

_Seen_  to it— what did that even mean? The Dark Lord must have noticed my alarmed expression, because he practically cackled.

"Sirius won't notice anything out of the ordinary," he promised.

Did I dare ask how? I desperately wanted to, but—

The Dark Lord rolled his eyes. "It's a form of legilimancy. Will you calm down now?"

"I didn't know legilimancy could be used in such a way," I confessed. Legilimancy was obviously used to interpret thoughts, but I had no idea it could be used to  _shape_  thoughts as well (I assumed that was what the Dark Lord was implying). It suggested a level of talent that I hadn't realised the Dark Lord was capable of, something which left a turbulent feeling in the pit of my stomach. How poorly had I underestimated him? What was he  _hiding?_

"It only works on him because he's been exposed to my horcrux in close quarters for so long," the Dark Lord explained. "It opens up the mental pathways; otherwise I'd never be able to get in. Of course, it helps that Sirius only has rudimentary occlumency shields." The Dark Lord looked down at his tracker, seemingly unconcerned with the conversation any longer, but I found my mind racing.

Occlumency… I'd been teaching Potter occlumency. I'd entered the boy's mind, which would create some sort of familiarity that could be considered a mental pathway. And of course, that was hardly the first time I'd cast legilimancy on the boy, although I tended to use it sparingly and only for surface thoughts.

If I had created these so called mental pathways between our minds, could the Dark Lord influence  _my_ thoughts?

I immediately dismissed the idea as ridiculous. I was a Master Occlumens; of course he couldn't. My mind was fastidiously guarded against any sort of intrusion, and I would be able to tell immediately if someone even  _tried_  to get in.

I was absolutely confident of that.

Black joined us on the front step a moment later, blinking in the sun.

"Ah, Sirius, we have to disguise you," the Dark Lord said, examining Black with a critical eye.

"Don't worry, Harry," Black laughed. "I'm an old hand at disguise spells by now." He waved his wand vaguely towards himself. His hair immediately lightened and lengthened — until he had an entire head full of curly blonde hair. His face had also become more delicate, giving him a rather feminine appearance, and he had—

He'd given himself breasts, I noticed with horrified disgust.

"Really, Sirius?" the Dark Lord asked in amusement. Did  _everything_  amuse him? I supposed with power like his, so much of this was just a game to him.

Black looked down at himself and frowned. "Whoops, I think I got a little too excited. Haven't done this in a while."

"Well, at least no one will think it's you," the Dark Lord pointed out, with an easy grin that reminded me of the elder Potter. Strange how the Dark Lord was more like James Potter than Harry Potter ever had been (and it was even more unsettling that it had taken the younger Potter getting  _possessed_  in order for me to see it. I was used to being much more perceptive). "I call the back seat!" he said suddenly, hopping off the step and practically skipping to the car.

"Usually people call the front seat, pup," Black said, with a grin. He genuinely did seem different than he had earlier. Lighter, perhaps. Less tense? He wasn't looking at me at all, and there were none of the usual snide remarks.

Ah, of course, and the Dark Lord sitting in the back meant I would be sharing the front with Black. Wonderful.

I slipped into the driver's seat and stared at the wheel for a long moment. Was I supposed to do something? There was a key, but did I just turn it on? Or was there a procedure of some sort?

"You said you knew how to drive," the Dark Lord accused me, leaning forward between the seats. I twisted around to face him, uncomfortably aware of how tight the fit in the car was.

"I said I vaguely knew. With 'knew' being the operative word there," I reluctantly admitted. "I find I'm not quite sure—"

"I know how to drive," Black said suddenly, his voice soft and bereft of the usual vitriol I received from him.

The Dark Lord and I considered this quietly for a moment, sending each other significant glances.

"I guess I'll drive then," he said with a sigh, and was already opening the door and exiting the car before I could muster up a protest.

The Dark Lord and I switched places, and I settled into the back seat with a horrible churning in my stomach.

"I will likely be able to take over soon, once I'm reminded of how it's done," I tried to assure him, but he brushed me off.

"Don't worry, you can make it up to me later." He flashed me a grin in the rearview mirror, and somehow that didn't make me feel better at all.

Black was notably silent, staring awkwardly at the Dark Lord. I wondered what he was thinking, and how aware he was of the situation. The Dark Lord could be incredibly delicate when he wanted to be, but often he preferred to brute force his way to success instead. Unfortunately, this tendency carried over to the mind arts as well.

And then we were off.

The Dark Lord was— well, at the risk of being tortured to death: he was not a very good driver. He swerved recklessly in and out of lanes, often only just barely avoiding collisions with other cars. There seemed to be a constant stream of honking around us as he drove us out of London, but somehow, miraculously, we made it out of the city alive.

"Snape, take a look," the Dark Lord called back to me, tossing the tracker over his shoulder. I caught it instinctively, and then paused for a moment. What— Ah. The Dark Lord had just used my last name instead of my first as usual. It felt strangely uncomfortable, even after only a few months. Was it for Black's benefit? I supposed it must have been, unless it was some sign of his displeasure.

I glanced down at the tracker, fiddling with it until I got a clear direction. "It's still pointing directly north," I said, with a grimace. The north of England wasn't exactly very specific; we could be driving around looking for it for days. And were there even going to be roads where we were going? We'd likely have to walk some part on foot. The last trip through the woods with the Dark Lord had been bad enough; bringing Black along this time would surely make it unbearable.

Although he'd been quiet so far. He seemed content to stare out the window, although he and the Dark Lord occasionally bantered. They seemed to genuinely get along, although part of me still expected the Dark Lord to kill him at any moment.

I supposed it wasn't really a surprise that the Dark Lord would be interested in someone magically powerful, unhinged, and with a vault full of gold sitting around unused. There was the small matter of Black being an escaped felon, but that hadn't ever stopped the Dark Lord before.

If anything, the fact that Black had escaped Azkaban probably made him  _more_  interesting to the Dark Lord.

We drove down yet another unbearably scenic, quiet country road and I wondered if it were possible that the Dark Lord would actually…  _win_. Even though I still only vaguely knew what game he was playing.

I examined the tracker in my hands critically. At the very least, the Dark Lord would likely succeed where generations of Potters had not, and find their missing ancestral home. I expected myself to feel annoyed or even angry at the thought, but instead I only felt a deep sense of exhaustion. It was hard to keep old grudges when their subjects were dead. Or possessed.

The drive ended up being incredibly boring. We made good time, and after a few hours swapped drivers just outside Coventry. The Dark Lord sprawled in the back seat, seemingly unconcerned about vehicular safety, and played with his tracker.

I carefully went through the startup procedure the Dark Lord had quickly demonstrated for me, and found with some relief that I hadn't forgotten  _everything_. I pulled out onto the road with some caution, but there weren't many on the roads this time of day.

We continued to head north, and by now the Dark Lord had pulled out a large map and was examining it critically, occasionally making small marks with a quill and muttering to himself.

Black had fallen asleep, and I ignored the soft snores he made. It was still better than listening to him talk.

The tracker slowly started pulling us east, and I felt a sense of anticipation rising. It was likely we'd made better progress in finding the property than anyone had before us. And by evening, we'd narrowed it down even further.

We'd also reached the point where there were no longer roads to take. The Dark Lord examined the map critically, and scratched out a few numbers that meant something only to him.

"We should be able to reach it in a few hours at most," he said, peering into the forest speculatively. It was getting to be evening, and I was a little nervous about traipsing around the forest after dark, but we were far enough away from the full moon that I managed to calm my fear slightly. Not to mention, this wasn't anywhere near as terrifying as the Forbidden Forest.

"I'll scout ahead!" Black said, practically chomping at the bit to be useful. He seemed to be enjoying the opportunity to stretch his legs, and immediately turned into a large black dog and bounded off into the undergrowth.

The Dark Lord watched him disappear with patient amusement, something I found eternally unsettling. Was it possible that Potter's influence was greater than I'd expected? Certain parts of the Dark Lord's character simply seemed too  _different_  for it to be attributed to a simple readjustment of goals. This version of him had, after all, spent thirteen years in someone else's mind. That had to have some effect, although perhaps it was nothing more than wishful thinking on my part.

We picked our way through the forest carefully, with the Dark Lord occasionally adjusting our course based on his readings, and with Black zipping around us like a puppy on stimulants.

And then, suddenly, the Dark Lord paused, a peculiar expression on his face. He was staring off at something in the distance, looking vaguely impressed.

"You've found it?" I breathed out, finding my heart racing in anticipation.

Black, still in dog form, had paused to look in the direction the Dark Lord was staring, and thus didn't notice when the Dark Lord hit him with a stunner from behind.

I stared at him, feeling perturbed.

The Dark Lord grinned. "Indeed I have. Shall we burn it to the ground?"

* * *

To my confusion, we did actually burn it to the ground, although we spent a few hours removing everything from the manor first. It wasn't excessively large, although it was as fine as I'd heard, and everything except the walls was cleared out for later inspection.

After that, the Dark Lord carefully dismantled the fire prevention wards, and sent the house up in flames.

His plan became clearer to me when he woke Black up again.

"Are you okay?" he asked, in expertly-faked concern. "I think the wards knocked you out." The Dark Lord leaned over Black's prone form, gripping his shoulder tightly as if to make sure he was alive.

Black blinked away the effects of the stunner, and then a low smile stretched across his face. "We found it?" he asked, his voice so full of hope that I felt strange intruding upon the moment. Good. Black didn't deserve to have moments.

"Yeah," the Dark Lord replied, beaming. "Are we ready to go see what's left of my family history?"

"I think we are," Black said sagely, and the Dark Lord helped pull him to his feet.

"Come on!" the Dark Lord laughed, pulling Black behind him as he raced over to where I knew the ward line was. Black hadn't been added to the wards yet, so to him it would just look like more forest, instead of the burnt-out husk that the Dark Lord and I saw.

The Dark Lord made a big show of smearing some of his blood on a particularly fancy looking rock, and having Black press his hand to it. I was pretty sure the procedure was fake, and merely something to distract from the Dark Lord using wandless magic to dismantle the wards, but Black looked suitably impressed.

His impressed look disappeared when the wards fell, only to be replaced by unregulated horror as he took in the wreckage.

"What—" he started, and then cut himself off, seemingly at a loss for words.

The Dark Lord did a good job of acting suitably shocked and horrified, and looked practically near tears.

"How did this happen?" he cried, clinging to Black's arm. "It's still smouldering!"

Black took in the scene with a ruthless efficiency that reminded me that he had been an auror, once. For a few years.

"Someone did this deliberately," he said slowly.

"Who would do that?" the Dark Lord practically wailed.

"Harry… Didn't you say the Ministry had a way to get past the wards?" Black asked, glancing over at the Dark Lord's pale face. Is that what he'd said? I hadn't been there for the conversation.

"I- Yeah, but Umbridge told us she wouldn't be doing anything until Wednesday," he replied weakly. His acting had taken on an entire new art form, it seemed. Not an hour ago he'd been cackling maniacally as he set the very fire he now looked so concerned about.

"I think she lied," Black said regretfully, pulling his arm out of the Dark Lord's grasp and slinging it around his shoulder instead. "I'm so, so sorry, pup. I know this meant a lot to you—" and judging by the hoarseness of Black's voice, it'd meant a lot to  _him_  as well. "—but it looks like the Ministry won this round."

The Dark Lord buried his face in Black's chest and faked a quiet, sad sob. Black wrapped his arms around the teen (it was rather hard to think of him as the Dark Lord at the moment, even though I knew he was merely putting on an act) and closed his eyes, a dark look passing over his face.

"Shhh, Harry, it's okay," he murmured, rubbing the boy's back. "It'll be alright. We're going to make them pay for this, I promise."

And thus the Dark Lord's intent became clear: he'd just recruited another person to his cause.


	16. Severus Learns to Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four more chapters, and then the epilogue! We're getting close to the end here, folks.

**Chapter 16 — Severus Learns to Remember**

Although it took me almost the rest of the holiday break, I managed to develop an antivenin for Arthur. It might have gone more quickly if not for the continual distraction that was the Dark Lord, but it wasn't within my power to say 'no' to anything he wanted.

Even if what he wanted was to spend hours each night discussing plans and strategies. Or for me to attend dinner every night with him and Black. And it was best to forget Christmas day altogether.

While we'd visited the castle occasionally, in order to keep up appearances, it was an exceptional relief to finally return to the castle properly. Strange; I'd been so excited to  _escape_  the castle that I hadn't given any thought to what it would be like once I was finally gone.

In a word, it had been: exhausting. The stress of feeling like I was constantly being watched was enormous, and for the life of me I couldn't figure out where the feeling was coming from. Normally I wouldn't hesitate to blame Black, but the Dark Lord had actually kept him fairly busy. Perhaps one of the Weasleys had been spying on me?

Regardless, I'd spent the whole two weeks walking on eggshells, and I was enormously relieved to finally return to the place I'd considered my home for the last thirteen years. Merlin— longer, really. I'd considered Hogwarts my home even as a student, my very first year. Even Umbridge stalking around couldn't take that feeling from me.

I supposed it helped that Umbridge had pointedly ignored me every time we saw each other at meals or in the hallways. She was still angry at me, most likely, and even her anger at Potter over the failure of her latest scheme hadn't distracted her.

Since the Dark Lord had dismantled the wards completely, the Ministry had actually thought they'd been successful in reclaiming the property. However, even Umbridge had recognised that the burnt-down remains of the Potter house likely indicated foul play. Of course, she couldn't blame Potter for it: even if she could somehow prove it, it wasn't a crime to burn down your own manor. And if she did try to accuse him, she'd have to admit to her own shady dealings. The only reason we'd even heard about the scheme was because one of Albus' new contacts in the Ministry had sent him a warning; Umbridge herself had never disclosed what was happening. While not illegal, this could easily be seen by the public of the Ministry taking unfair advantage of an orphan, and one from an old, respected family to boot.

No, Umbridge had not come out ahead in this whole mess, and even though she didn't know how, she suspected Potter was at fault. Thankfully she didn't seem to suspect me as well, but her bad mood meant that she was unpleasant to be around regardless. Not that she'd ever been  _pleasant_  to be around.

The Monday back from break also brought such wonderful pleasures as the fifth-year Gryffindor/Slytherin class, which never failed to send me spiralling into a fit of despair.

The Dark Lord brewed perfectly, as usual, quietly working with Granger in the front of the room. The assignment for today was to brew an antidote for a specific poison, and the one I'd given them had been miles away the hardest. Frankly, I would be hard pressed to justify even assigning it to a N.E.W.T.-level class. The Dark Lord hadn't even noticed anything wrong, and Miss Granger seemed to be rising to the challenge with a ferocity that had long since stopped surprising me.

Meanwhile, I'd given Longbottom the easiest poison. Not because I wanted to make it easier for him, but because I expected he would still fail and I would enjoy the satisfaction seeing it.

He was working with Weasley, which as far as I was concerned changed nothing about my expectations.

Once I'd finished heaping praise upon the Slytherins (half because it was expected of me, and half because I enjoyed seeing the faces of the Gryffindor students twisting in righteous anger), I stalked over to Weasley and Longbottom's cauldron, grimly anticipating what I would find.

What I found was utterly underwhelming. I pointedly cast the Tempus charm in front of them: it was thirty minutes into the lesson already.

"Weasley, explain to me what I'm looking at," I said silkily, as Weasley dropped the hiccough flower he was holding and nervously grabbed his textbook in defence.

"Er— Well—"

I waited patiently, eyebrow slightly raised. Weasley trailed off, bright red.

"It seems to be a  _poison_ ," I commented lightly, savouring every minute of the inevitable destruction of any sense of self-worth they might be clinging to.

"It is right  _now_ ," Weasley said, his voice coming out squeaky in his panic. I heard some of my Slytherins sniggering behind me, but ignored it. Let them laugh. If politics had worked out differently, it would be them I was eviscerating.

"Judging by the ingredients on your workspace, it will remain that way as well." Longbottom and Weasley had hardly done anything to their poison at all. They hadn't even  _neutralised_  it yet, let alone created an antidote. I hardly needed to say anything; I could see on their faces that they felt their failure acutely. Especially surrounded by classmates who were, if not succeeding, certainly not failing to the degree that the two in front of me were.

"Er— We were going to get some more ingredients," Weasley mumbled, looking down at his knives in order to avoid making eye contact.

I smoothly turned my gaze on Longbottom, who looked absolutely miserable.

"Longbottom, tell me, how were you going to neutralise this poison?"

"By— by—" the boy looked like he was about to pass out.

"Yes?" I said mockingly, leaning in slightly. "Please, do tell me."

"We were— We were going to add—" And Longbottom fell silent. He was gripping something tightly in his hand, just out of sight underneath the table.

"Show me your hands," I instructed, rapping my knuckles on the wood.

Reluctantly, Longbottom raised his hands above the table and uncupped them — revealing a remembrall with red mist curling around inside.

Immediately, I sneered. "And what do you suppose you've forgotten?"

"I— I don't know," Longbottom admitted faintly. He looked like he was about to cry. Which was hardly a new look for him, but if I made a fifth-year Gryffindor cry Minerva would have my head. And I was still on thin ice with her given the fact that I'd spent the holiday break with Potter.

Still, I imagined the boy would be able to hold out a  _bit_  longer. "It seems to  _me_ , Longbottom, that you've forgotten how to read," I drawled, tapping pointedly on the textbook, which was open to the page giving fairly detailed instructions on how to brew an antidote. Honestly, for this poison especially it was a ludicrously easy process.

I paused for dramatic effect. "Or perhaps you never knew at all?"

Titters again from the Slytherin crowd, although they sounded more nervous this time. I had no idea what they were thinking. Did they think this was a sign of some bad mood? It's true that I often used cruelty to students as a form of stress relief, but generally it left me feeling much better. What would they be nervous about?

I plucked the remembrall from Longbottom's hands. "I'm confiscating this," I informed him. "You can get it back at the end of class on Thursday." I examined it critically. The red smoke had turned white as soon as it had left Longbottom's hands, but as I watched it, I saw it slowly turn red again.

There was utter silence from the class as I frowned at the small glass ball.

Weasley, apparently, had more bravery than sense for he decided to pipe up: "Did you forget how to read too, professor?"

I raised at eyebrow at the boy, who had immediately turned pale after his ill-planned words. The rest of the class waited with bated breath as I stared at him. It occurred to me that Weasley likely had a similar coping mechanism for stress: namely, attempting to dump that stress on others by behaving poorly. The difference, of course, was that I was smart enough to pick targets who couldn't fight back.

"I believe, Mister Weasley, that what I've forgotten is the  _other_  essay I planned on assigning for homework. Five feet, everyone, on the historical uses of frog petals in antidotes." The class let out a groan, and Weasley looked deliciously furious. I turned to address the rest of the class. "And of course,  _do_  remember to thank Weasley for reminding me." I slipped the remembrall back into my pocket before anyone could notice that it was still red.

The class was glaring at Weasley, with the exception of Granger (who looked excited about the extra assignment) and the Dark Lord, who was staring at me with ill-disguised amusement. There was a certain light in his eye that concerned me, but I could hardly do anything about it at the moment.

I returned to the front of the room, sitting down heavily at my desk. The students reluctantly returned to work, already missing the distraction that the short excitement had caused.

The remembrall, however…

What was I forgetting?

* * *

After my classes were over for the day, I immediately retreated to my quarters. I ripped apart my belongings with a furore that surprised me, but I was desperate to find any trace of what I might have forgotten.

I was an Occlumens. That meant my memory was very well developed. I didn't just  _forget_  things.

My quarters seemed to have nothing out of place — everything was where I  _remembered_. Except for one thing.

At the bottom of my sock box (which I really needed a better name for), was a pair of socks I didn't recognise.

Since they didn't immediately trigger a recollection in me, that meant that the memory of however I'd acquired them had been  _removed_. Which made absolutely no sense — if someone were going to Obliviate me, why would they give me a pair of socks first? Or perhaps someone else had given me the socks, unrelated to the Oblivation. Or perhaps the socks were a false trail — something to distract me while something even  _more_  sinister happened.

The Dark Lord was the obvious candidate for who might have Obliviated me, but that didn't really answer  _why_. He wasn't exactly being shy with his plans and goals — or were there additional goals that I had become accidentally aware of, thus requiring the need for the removal of this knowledge? Or could he have told me something, only for me to react unexpectedly to it?

My mind was whirling with a million possible scenarios, so quickly that I felt almost dizzy. Perhaps it wasn't even the Dark Lord at all — could it have been Umbridge? Could it have been  _Albus_? I felt like the walls were closing in on me, and I struggled to control my breathing.

I had spent years perfecting the protections around my mind, and now someone had violated it, forcibly taking my memory from me. Merlin, what if I had done it to myself? What if I had done something so horrible that I was  _forced_  to remove the memory for my own well-being?

And along the way bought a new pair of socks?

The socks I was holding were soft, and the tangible feel of them in my hand slowly calmed me. I clung to them as a drowning man might cling to a rope; they were all that separated me from the dark depths of the sea below.

The socks were strange, which added to the mystery. Unlike the usual thick wool socks that Albus always bought for me, these were a thin cotton, and had orange and grey stripes. The pattern obviously thought itself cheery, even as it bombarded the eye with an embarrassment of colour.

Perhaps I was getting ahead of myself. This could be another one of Albus' practical jokes (although it felt a little extreme, even for him). It didn't seem like I had been harmed in anyway way; I wasn't missing anything or had any ingredients taken from me. I supposed it said a lot about me that I was so quick to assume the worst (not that I was  _ruling out_  the worst, by any stretch). It would do me no good, however, to immediately panic when I didn't have any concrete information. I would need time to think about this, to weigh my options and decide on an appropriate course of action.

The most damaging thing I could do right now was to panic.

Instead, I carefully rearranged my room, making sure everything was in perfect order. I put the socks back where I had found them, hidden deep underneath all the rest of my socks. Next, I examined the door. I needed some way of telling if anyone had entered, but I couldn't use magical means or it would stand out like a sore thumb and someone with more skill than me would then be able to dismantle it. But what could I— Ah.

I filled a cup with exactly 51.7 grams of water, and then placed it within the path of the door opening. I considered this for a moment, before setting a book down on top of the cup, ostensibly to prevent evaporation, although admittedly I wasn't sure how much of a factor that would be at room temperature anyway. I had a book in my office with evaporation tables for various substances, which I would have to check later if I wanted to be sure.

As I was leaving my room, I used a careful summoning spell to pull the cup closer to the door so that it was impossible to widen the door enough to get through without knocking over the cup. Unless someone stopped to check for it (which was unlikely; wizards tended to assume that if there wasn't a magical solution, there wasn't a solution), they would miss the trap.

Unfortunately, they would be hard-pressed to miss it  _after_  they had knocked the cup over and entered, but likely they would be unable to re-create the cup set-up as I had left it. I would need to check it every time I entered my quarters, and reset it every time I left, which made it unfavourable as a long term solution, but as a temporary measure while I found something better, it would work well enough.

Once I'd set the cup, I adjourned to my office. As soon as I entered, I immediately stopped short. Of  _course_ , why hadn't I realised earlier? That fairy dust I'd found in here before Christmas— I'd suspected a prank, but no prank had ever emerged.

Could it be related? I sat heavily down in my chair, utterly bewildered. It was clear to me that  _something_  was going on, but I failed utterly to come up with a  _what_. A  _why_  would also have been nice, and also eluded me completely.

Fairy dust and socks— neither of them were in any way dangerous. But why would someone go to the trouble of Obliviating me if nothing dangerous was happening? I suppose there could have been fairy dust and socks  _and_  something dangerous—

Speaking of fairy dust… Hadn't Luna Lovegood used fairy dust in her burn salve earlier this year? She'd been a great fan of the colour, I remembered. And hadn't she also, a few weeks before break, asked me to oversee some of her potions experiments?

She'd seemed genuinely excited when I'd agreed, and yet, she'd never actually stopped by my office. In fact, I'd mostly  _forgotten_ about the whole thing—

I stared blankly at the wall of my office. Of course, I could hardly see it past the various jars and books that covered the shelves. The books were made up of various recipe books, some theory texts, and my personal favourite, books with nothing other than reaction tables. As a young lad just starting in potions, I'd found them excessively boring and ludicrously specific.  _Who would ever need to know how long it takes frog petals to react in a tincture of rose water_? I'd thought scornfully to myself. The information included in the tables seemed excessively detailed, niche to the point of uselessness.

As an adult, however, one who spent his life brewing and creating potions, they were a gods' send. There was truly nothing better than being able to calculate  _exactly_  the characteristic times of various ingredients within a potion, before even picking up a cauldron. Never again would I over-boil lionfish spines and explode my potion, because I could simply pick up the book that detailed the reaction times of lionfish spines and see what the times would be under whatever conditions the spines would see in the potion.

Of course, the books weren't complete. There were many ingredients, and many  _many_  different possible reactions between them. Additionally, there were many other factors that needed to be taken into account before the full reaction could be described analytically. Temperature, magical potency, phase of the moon — just a  _few_  examples of the different factors that could affect a reaction time. Many of these affected a reaction time in predictable ways: a new moon always lengthened the reaction time between two ingredients in a consistent way depending on the relative magical potencies of the ingredients. Temperature shortened the reaction time in a repeatable way as long as the background magic was consistent as well.

All this was a lot, of course — there was a reason there were so few potions masters. Many people simply didn't have the patience for the careful and often tedious calculations that went into creating or modifying a potion.

There were very few potions masters who  _didn't_ possess that patience. Generally, the ones who didn't never lived very long.

It was this sort of thing — balancing reactions — that I thought truly made potions shine as a discipline. It was so rare in magic that you could truly be exact, and I thought it was beautiful that potions allowed that. Those calculations were also beyond N.E.W.T.-level, and very rarely did I ever meet a student whom I thought might actually have the temperament to learn these techniques.

Luna Lovegood had been one such student. She had a brilliant mind, and a thirst for knowledge that was impressive even for a Ravenclaw. She'd—

Could she have Obliviated me?

I desperately wanted to believe she couldn't have, but the evidence was in front of me. True, it wasn't enough to condemn her — for that I would require absolute proof — but the suspicion was there all the same.

The only way I would know for sure would be to reverse the Obliviation, and that might take weeks. Better than never knowing, of course, but what would I do in the meantime? Sit idly and try to think up some reason my most promising student might turn on me like that?

Unfortunately, that was exactly what I did.

* * *

Wednesday evening found me in the Slytherin common room, ostensibly holding office hours for students to come to me with concerns, but in reality I was eavesdropping.

My Slytherins hadn't come to me in months, anyway. I suspected it had to do with my distraction lately, although I genuinely couldn't be sure. How many times had I had to close my office to students because I was doing something with Potter? Or missed my posted office hours because I was on an errand for the Dark Lord? Enough to leave a mark, I supposed.

It didn't take long before I started to hear something worthwhile — although it deeply saddened me what my definition of "worthwhile" had become.

"I wish I could have had an exciting break like Pansy's," I overheard Daphne Greengrass whine. "It's so unfair."

"You mean because she went to the gala?" Millicent Bulstrode asked, confusion palpable in her voice.

"Ugh, no Milly. That gala is boring anyway. Who'd want to have to sit around while a bunch of stuffy politicians get drunk and eat stupid tiny sandwiches? No, I meant she got to visit  _Theo_."

What had I become, to have sunk so low as to be listening to teenage girls gossip about boys. Was this my penance? Had I acted poorly in a past life?

Well— yes, actually. If by "past life" you meant "current life up to and including this very moment."

"Why'd ya wanna visit Theo?" Bulstrode was clearly mystified, a sentiment I shared.

"He's so  _dreamy_!" Greengrass sighed dramatically. I was skeptical of Nott's "dreaminess." He seemed more perpetually sullen to me. "And handsome and kind and smart—" Well, now I knew she was just making things up.

"Alright," Bulstrode agreed doubtfully. "If you say so. But what do you mean she visited Theo? I thought she visited Draco."

Greengrass fell silent, and I tried to spot her reflection in the shiny metallic frames hanging above the fireplace. I could vaguely make out some blurry shapes, but since the common room had quite a few people at the moment, I couldn't be sure it was her. And I certainly couldn't make out any facial expression, regardless.

"I'm positive she visited Theo," Greengrass finally said, and indeed, she didn't sound uncertain.

"Well,  _I'm_  positive she visited Draco," Bulstrode retorted, and they were interrupted by a third voice.

"And Theo and Draco visited each other," Zabini chimed in. Shit, I'd mostly forgotten about him. He was an adequate prefect, no worse than Draco had been but not especially better, and I'd rather put the matter out of my mind. Now it seemed that perhaps I should have been making better use of the boy. "And all three of them visited each other. Didn't you know?"

"Know what?" Greengrass asked, in excited confusion.

"Why, the three of them are involved.  _Romantically_." Zabini sounded far too pleased with himself, and I took his statement with a grain of salt. He seemed sure, but he was also a teenager.

"No!" Greengrass gasped.

"Wow," Bulstrode sighed. "I didn't know Pansy had it in her. Two guys at once!"

"Milly!" Greengrass gasped again, although this time she sounded affronted.

I heard Zabini laugh. "Well, it's true. I overheard them talking about it."

"Does that mean Draco and Theo—" Greengrass asked uncertainly.

"Probably," Zabini replied, and I would have bet a hundred galleons that he'd accompanied his statement with a careless fucking shrug.

"Wow," Bulstrode repeated, sounding a little dazed. I resolved then and there to never use legilimancy on the girl — who knew what I would see in her mind. (As a matter of fact, teenagers' minds in general were very dangerous; another reason I tended not to stray from my own mind here at the school.)

The three of them continued on with their inconsequential natterings and I largely tuned them out, instead occupying myself with my thoughts.

I was almost finished deciphering where the Belfry was located (and as soon as it was safe to do so, I  _absolutely_  would be bragging about it to the rest of the staff — it wasn't every day one unearthed a Hogwarts legend), which meant that soon enough this entire mess would be laid to rest. By cross-referencing the descriptions in the diary with whatever historical accounts of Hogwarts I could find, I'd narrowed the location of the entrance down to a specific corridor in the East Tower. Bane occasionally discussed chatting with various portraits in his diary, and although it had taken a lot of work, I'd managed to map the location of where those portraits would have been during Bane's time.

In addition to art history books, I'd also interviewed ghosts and portraits to see if I couldn't piece together a historical map of the castle. The process had been horrendously tedious, but I couldn't deny that it had given me good results.

Hopefully Bane's diary would include a clue as to how to gain access to the Belfry — although in case it didn't I would also start testing for wards in that corridor. Testing the whole castle, or even the whole East Wing would have been impossible, but a single corridor was doable, especially since I knew the general location I would need to look at.

I felt optimistically that I would gain access to the Belfry in as soon as a few weeks. After being wrapped up in the mystery for so long, the thought was immensely satisfying (although I was careful not to consider myself done — not when there was still so much potential for disaster).

A name suddenly interrupted my thoughts.

"—Potter is, actually. I know, I was surprised too." The voice belonged to Tanner, a sixth year. He was adequate at potions.

"But he's just a fifth year," Whalen protested, another sixth year. She was close friends with Tanner, and they often worked together in class.

Tanner snorted. "Believe me, I know. But I swear, Hestia said he's the one running it."

"And she still goes?" Whalen sounded appropriately amazed. They were obviously talking about the Dark Lord's defence class. The idea of Hestia Carrow — who was extremely sharp — learning anything from a fifth year was laughable. Of course, what they didn't realise was that Potter wasn't actually a fifth year at all, but a sixty-five-year-old dark lord etcetera etcetera. I was getting tired of belabouring the point in my head.

"Yeah, and she even says she's learning a lot," Tanner added, sounding pleased with Whalen's amazement. And hadn't Zabini just been the same way? Teenage boys were all the same.

"Is he a good teacher?" Whalen asked skeptically.

"That's what Hestia says. She says he has a passion for teaching that she's never seen before, even from the professors."

Whalen snorted. "Like that's hard."

"Shhh, not so loud. Snape's over there by the fire."

I repressed a smirk. I had never once regretted enhancing my hearing, despite the occasional awkwardness of overhearing intimate encounters between my students. Just the knowledge that I was overhearing something that my students didn't want me to hear filled me with a pleasure that teaching the little twits could never hope to match. Truly, this was why I became an educator. (I pointedly ignored the fact that at the time my only two options and been Hogwarts or prison— and I'd had to really think about it.)

What was more interesting, however, was the news that the Dark Lord apparently loved teaching. Certainly he'd never balked from educating the death eaters before, but generally the lessons were exceedingly painful. To hear that he was teaching  _teenagers_ — well, that certainly gave me pause.

* * *

That very same Dark Lord came to my quarters on Friday night.

"Minerva will throw a fit if she finds out about this," I warned him, after I'd opened the door to find him there.

The Dark Lord scoffed. "Minny threw a fit at everything I did in school. She never  _could_  stand me."

I paused. The Dark Lord had— the Dark Lord had  _gone to school with Minerva_? This was— had she ever mentioned that before? Surely it would have come up at one point? Although it was hardly something one brought up in casual conversation, I supposed…

The Dark Lord pushed past me into my sitting room, and settled himself into what had become his spot on the couch.

I waited for him to say something, but he merely stared at me, a contemplative expression on his face.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" I finally said, after I couldn't take the silence any longer.

The Dark Lord smiled at that: lips quirking in the barest hint of amusement. "Would you like to help me with a quick errand?" he said mockingly. I didn't get the joke.

I opened my mouth to reply, but he cut me off.

"I'm obviously kidding. You don't get a choice in the matter. I'm going to collect the rest of my horcruxes, and  _you're_  going to come with me." He looked at me expectantly.

I responded automatically: "Of course, Harry." The name rolled off my tongue so smoothly I barely even noticed it. And why should I? The Dark Lord was more "Harry" to me than Potter had ever been.

Thankfully, I had better things to think about than Potter, at the moment. The Dark Lord's horcruxes would probably be well guarded, and I imagined this would hardly be as easy as he made it out to be.

On the other hand, given that the Dark Lord had hidden them in the first place, maybe it  _would_  prove trivial after all.

The silence stretched on.

"Hermione's decided to start a newspaper," the Dark Lord finally said, apropos of nothing.

I paused for a moment to consider my response. "She's always been very eager," I said cautiously, uncertain of what he was looking for from me.

The Dark Lord snorted. "More than eager, I should think. She has a  _fire_  in her, one that I don't see very often." He hesitated, glancing between where I was sitting in my favourite armchair, and his boots, which he was resting on the coffee table. He looked utterly carefree, slouched low on the sofa with his legs stretched in front of him. "She reminds me of me, when I was younger," he admitted. "Except she actually believes in everything she's saying. She's fighting because she cares, not because she wants to win."

"You don't approve?" There was a fire burning low in my hearth, fighting valiantly against the January chill. The flames cast playful shadows along the walls, and lit the Dark Lord's face so that I could clearly see his pensive expression.

"When one is fighting with their heart," he said slowly, selecting each word with care. "Then one has that much more at stake. If I don't succeed with this cause, yes, it will be a set back, but I'll find something else to incite the masses over. But if she doesn't succeed… what else will she have? This is her life."

"She's still young," I demurred, wondering what brought on this strange melancholy the Dark Lord seemed steeped in. I wondered, as I often did, what he was thinking— his mind must have been  _fascinating._

The Dark Lord nodded. "I am painfully aware of that." He fell silent, staring into the fire for a long moment. "It's utterly exhausting pretending to be a teenager," he admitted, looking up at me sheepishly.

"It's utterly exhausting simply being around them," I concurred, and he smirked.

"Everything is the end of the world. Every other week there's a new life-ruining disaster. Everyone is always  _talking_ , and no one actually  _listens_ to anyone else. They're so caught up in what other people think of them that they never stop to consider that no one else is paying attention— they're all too obsessed with themselves to care."

That seemed to me to be an accurate and concise way of describing the youth, and I told the Dark Lord emphatically as such.

He heaved a sigh. "And yet I am now forced to count myself among them," he observed, a far-off look in his eye.

"Only two and a half years until you graduate," I offered weakly. The thought stunned me. Would the Dark Lord still be possessing Potter two and a half years from now? It seemed completely bizarre to even contemplate, yet at the same time, it felt logical. Certainly the Dark Lord didn't  _seem_  like he was planning on leaving. And it had taken years and years until he'd been defeated the first time— and even then no one knew how. Had the Dark Lord already won?

It wasn't the first time I'd thought such a thing, but it was the first time I'd actually contemplated what that meant. The future stretched on in front of me, and for ever, the Dark Lord was at the centre of it.

The Dark Lord rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Severus, that makes me feel  _so_  much better. You know, I  _hated_  school the first time around."

That didn't actually surprise me. "You don't seem like the sort of person who would be content sitting around for very long," I noted, and the Dark Lord glanced over at me in amusement.

"Such a mouth on you, Severus," he commented idly, and I felt a frisson of fear run down my spine. It was— well. "I was head boy, actually," he told me.

"You were?" I was genuinely startled. I truly had no concept of what a teenage dark lord would look like— other than what I was seeing now, I supposed. And considering that, perhaps it wasn't so crazy after all. Certainly now as a teenager he was charming and courteous, always polite to professors and working diligently on homework. He was even teaching his fellow students defence.  _And_  he'd cultivated something of a reputation of standing up for others, recently.

I felt sick to my stomach. The Dark Lord was better at being the Boy-Who-Lived than Potter had been.

"Yes, all the professors loved me," explained the Dark Lord, once more staring into the fire. "All except Dumbledore, of course. He hated me from the second I stepped foot in Hogwarts."

_That_  didn't surprise me in the least. Albus was unnervingly sharp when it came to people's characters. He must have seen something in the Dark Lord as an eleven-year-old that spoke to some terrible future. Although what that would look like, I had no idea. The Dark Lord as an eleven-year-old at all simply wasn't something I could picture.

"What is Miss Granger's plan with this newspaper?" I asked, after another long silence.

"She intends for it to start as a school paper, and potentially expand once she graduates. She's very interested in a fair press, given how ridiculous the papers recently have been."

"Are you interested in a fair press?" I asked, raising my eyebrow slightly.

"Given what I've seen of Hermione's idea of fair, I think so," the Dark Lord commented dryly. "She believes in the truth at all costs— even if it destabilises the government and sends our society crashing to the ground."

"She's always been very idealistic."

The Dark Lord scoffed. "Any society that can be so disrupted by the truth doesn't deserve to exist," he argued.

I had to face facts at some point— if the Dark Lord got his way, the government would collapse and he would be free to put something else in its place. I'd never especially been a fan of the Ministry, but it was something of a institution. It seemed crazy to think that the Ministry could  _collapse_ , but of course, if the Dark Lord had his way, it would practically implode.

I would eventually need to sit down and consider carefully what sort of future I was looking for. It wasn't reasonable anymore for me to continue along as I had been— the reality of the situation was that there was simply too much at stake.

I fiddled with my sleeve as the silence stretched on unbearably. The Dark Lord was still staring into space, clearly thinking very hard about something or other. It had been a long day, and I was tired— I was quickly running out of patience.

"When will we go?" I finally asked, my voice sounding harsher than I'd intended as it broke the calm silence.

The Dark Lord looked over at me, a considering expression on his young face. "Why not now?" he suggested, a sly grin crossing his features.

I held back a shudder. "Of course," I murmured.

The Dark Lord picked his feet up off the coffee table and stood, lifting his arms in the air and stretching his back. I heard his spine crack, and winced.

We left the castle in silence. I felt antsy at heading off on an adventure so late in the day, but I knew realistically that it wasn't even midnight yet, and likely I would hardly need to do anything at all. Perhaps. Truly, I had no idea what was in store for us.

Certainly, I never could have predicted that the Dark Lord would bring us to a small Muggle village. He led us to the outskirts, and we approached a ragged shack that looked like it would collapse any second. I gripped my wand tightly, as if the illumination it provided would somehow protect me from whatever horrors lay within.

He gestured for me to wait on the road as he lifted Potter's wand and carefully started casting. Some of what he was doing I recognised — here was the movement for Bangley's Second Destabiliser, and there was a spell to allow him to feel where the wards were — but most of it was completely foreign to me. Granted, I was hardly an expert in curse breaking.

Eventually, the flickers of magic stilled and the Dark Lord lowered his wand.

"It's safe enough," he drawled, which didn't reassure me in the slightest. "Just don't touch anything."

He led me into the shack, through a door with a dead snake nailed to it. I had a sick feeling in my gut that told me there was some serious dark magic afoot here.

I lingered by the door as the Dark Lord continued casting. Eventually, he knelt down and retrieved from under the floorboards a small box, which he opened with a grim smile.

"I put a very nice curse on this, you know," he said conversationally, as he peered inside. "Anyone who tried to steal it would be compelled to put it on— and then the magic would eat away at their life force until they withered away and died."

That was very dark magic indeed. I repressed a shudder at the thought.

"It's a shame to remove it," the Dark Lord continued. He pulled out of the box a ring, with a black stone set at the centre. He held it up to the light, examining it with an affectionate smile. "It's smaller than the other pieces, of course— but beautiful nonetheless."

I made no comment. I was too busy fighting off a sneeze from the kilos of dust that covered the whole room.

I did notice, however, when the Dark Lord suddenly frowned. He drew the stone closer to his face, peering intently at it.

"Holy fuck," he breathed out, his eyes widening.

"What?" I asked in alarm, tensing and mentally preparing myself to bolt out the door.

"This is a fucking hallow!" he crowed with delight. "All this fucking time and I fucking had it right here!" Merlin, he'd been spending too much time around teenagers— his language was appalling (I resolutely ignored the hypocrisy of this statement).

"Another deathly hallow?" I repeated dumbly. That was two of the three— what would happen when he got the third as well? I'd never heard of anyone reuniting them. Would he truly become master of death? What did that even mean?

"Do you know what this means?" He looked over at me in excitement, discarding the box carelessly on the floor. "Just one more left— and I know where it is." The Dark Lord was obviously immensely satisfied with himself, but when I asked for details, he waved me off.

"No need to concern yourself with that, Severus," he assured me. "We have more important things to do."

I sighed. "Of course. Where next?"

The Dark Lord hesitated. "Hmm. The diary's gone, I already ate the locket… The cup I gave to Bella to protect, so likely it's within her vault." He scowled. "Shite, I should have thought of that sooner. We're going to have to break her out of Azkaban."

That did not at all sound like something I wanted to do. "Now?" I asked weakly.

The Dark Lord smirked. "Tomorrow, I think. I'll need some time to prepare, and we won't be able to get actually into the bank until then anyway. We'll have to be quick so that word of her escape doesn't have time to get around— we'll be taking a risk bringing her to Diagon Alley regardless." Now he was muttering to himself, twisting the ring idly in his fingers. "And what to do with her afterwards? I can hardly keep her if I'm to be Harry Potter—" He finally fell silent, and stared at nothing for a few long minutes before sighing and swallowing the ring.

As we left, the Dark Lord was practically  _giddy_. With just the dim light of my wand, I could tell that he was actually giving off a faint glow. It was possible he had been after the locket, as well. It would have been too light to see then.

Our return to the castle was as uneventful as our exit, and the Dark Lord disappeared under his cloak. I had no way of telling when he left, but by the time I reached my quarters, I was confident that he was gone.

The next day, he broke Bellatrix Lestrange out of Azkaban and retrieved his horcrux from her vault.

The paper on Sunday carried word of her breakout. The papers reported that Aurors had said she had likely broken out with no outside assistance, but that they couldn't rule out the possibility that Sirius Black had somehow been involved. The papers then discussed at length their familial relationship, and included some accounts from people that had known them both in school.

It was good reporting, actually, something that I wasn't used to seeing from the Daily Prophet. I could also see Gavin's voice in there— the article wasn't written by him, but as an editor, it was possible he would have had some hand in the final piece.

What would the elder Dark Lord think of this newest development? Obviously he knew that Black wasn't working for him, but would he believe that Bella had escaped of her own volition? Undoubtedly, he would expect her to go to him. I didn't know what the younger Dark Lord had done with her, but it put me in a very perilous position, were I to be called soon. If the elder Dark Lord should grow suspicious, and look into my mind, he would see me and Harry Potter retrieving his horcruxes.

There was really no way I could spin that that would make that look good.

Sighing, I started mentally preparing what I would say to the man should he ask. Hopefully, that would be sufficient to prevent further investigation.

My life would be on the line otherwise.


	17. Harry Learns to Manipulate a Nation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note: I've read Snarry before and enjoyed it, but I don't think it's especially realistic to canon. That being said, fan fiction pointedly isn't canon. My point is, whatever views are expressed in this chapter are not my personal views. I don't mean to offend anyone or start any ship wars.
> 
> Now that that's out of the way... I actually quite liked this chapter, although it's not perfect and could be improved upon. We're starting to really get close to the end (three chapters and an epilogue left), and things are going to start ramping up very quickly.

I spent the rest of my Sunday going through everything in my quarters with a fine-tooth comb, looking for any magical residue that I couldn't explain. It was almost nostalgic, in a way, to rediscover so many things I'd collected and then abandoned in my time at Hogwarts. Here, a small jar of ice salve that I'd made a minor formulaic improvement to. There, a wax figure of a beetle that I'm sure I'd had  _some_  use for, even though I could no longer fathom what it was.

Still, the work was tedious and took far longer than I would have liked. But by Sunday evening, when I finally collapsed into my favourite chair, I knew it was worth it. I was now confident that there were no spying devices hidden in my rooms anywhere— nothing that would report on me, or track me, or possibly explode and kill me in any way.

For the first time in weeks, I found myself relaxing. True, all of my things were strewn haphazardly around the sitting room and would need to be put away (which would thankfully be less arduous than checking everything had been), but the feeling of safety that I hadn't realised was missing lulled me into a calm satisfaction.

I stretched out luxuriously in my favourite armchair, enjoying the cool dungeon air on my skin mixing with the warmth of the fire. It was so quiet the only sound I could hear was the beating of my own heart, the gentle rhythm of blood rushing through my veins. My breathing was near silent; my breath slow enough that the air through my nose hardly made a sound.

Finally, I was at peace.

The knock on my door jolted me out of that right quick, sending my heart rate skyrocketing and my spine tingling with fear.

I answered the door reluctantly, expecting to see the Dark Lord.

Instead, it was Draco Malfoy.

"Draco?" His first name slipped out in surprise, although I suppose I would have used it anyway since we were alone. He'd never come to my quarters before— generally coming to my office— Ah… My office hours, which were this afternoon. Which I'd completely forgotten about.  _How_ —

"Professor," Draco said, his face even paler than usual. His fists were clenched, but I could see that his hands were trembling. His eyes were wide with genuine fear. "I need to tell you something." He clutched nervously at the hem of his untucked shirt, crumpling the fabric in a way Narcissa never would have approved of. His breathing was ragged, his hair mussed. What on earth had happened to the boy?

"Come in," I invited, and stepped aside to allow him entry. He brushed past me, and I shut the door quietly behind him.

I watched as he looked around the room with surprise, taking in the mess that lay everywhere. Boxes piled everywhere around the room, most of them opened and overflowing…

"Sir?" he asked, bewildered. He seemed to have calmed down a bit, now that he safely inside. Had he done something? What did he need to confess?

"Doing a bit a spring cleaning," I said dryly. Draco took in the mess with a skeptical eye, but sat down on my sofa without further comment. He sat in the Dark Lord's usual spot.

"There's something I have to—" He drew a great shuddering breath, and leaned forward to place his head between his knees. His shoulders were shaking.

"What's wrong?" I asked, moving over to the boy and inspecting him for any signs of damage. "Are you hurt? Injured?"

"No, I'm— I'm fine. I've—" He sat up quickly, his breathing rapid. He stared at the boxes on the coffee table blankly, but it didn't look like he was seeing anything.

"Breathe slowly," I instructed, keeping my voice calm. "Deep breath in, deep breath out. I'm going to get you a glass of water." I heard behind me as Draco followed my instructions, and I felt some slight relief as his breathing calmed to a more reasonable pace. When I came back with the water, he was twisting his fingers nervously.

"Here," I said, handing him the glass.

"Thank you." He took a small sip, and then a larger one. The water seemed to do him some good, for when he looked at me he seemed to actually be  _seeing_  me, instead of looking right past me.

We both looked at the coffee table as he set the glass down, and suddenly my stomach clenched.

His hand stilled.

He was staring at the box of miscellaneous magical supplies that I'd left out, his eyes wide. "Professor?" he asked, in a quiet voice, staring at the small doll that had gotten him removed from the prefect's position.

This was… not ideal. I would have to— I would deny everything. What else could I do?

"What is it?" I asked, letting some impatience creep into my tone. Pretend nothing was wrong. Pretend evidence of my deception wasn't sitting right in front of him.

"What's  _this_?" Draco asked angrily, picking the doll up and shaking it.

I raised a careful eyebrow. "Surely you remember the doll that—"

"I mean  _why do you have it_?" he snarled.

Deny deny deny. "Did you except Professor McGonagoll to keep it?" I asked in innocent condescension.

"You said you were going to destroy it— but you've  _fixed_  it!" he accused. "Why do you still have it? Why didn't you get rid of it?" He looked close to tears. He'd clearly already been having a bad day, and this most certainly wouldn't help.

What was the best lie here? Why hadn't I  _planned_  for this? I'd been so confident that he'd never see— "It's not simple to destroy an artefact of power," I explained slowly. "It takes careful planning. I've been very busy."

Draco's face screwed up into a scowl. "You know, I've always wondered who would leave such a  _powerful_  artefact just lying around the common room— and not try to get it back later. I've been thinking about it for months, wondering who was responsible." Draco stood suddenly, throwing the doll back into the box with unnecessary force. "But never once did I think it might be  _you_!"

This was not going at all as planned. I'd had no idea the boy was so broken up over losing his position. He'd seemed fine, when we talked. I'd assumed— I'd assumed poorly.

"You must understand—" I tried, and it immediately failed.

"Oh, I understand!" Draco threw my words back in my face. "I understand perfectly! I  _trusted_  you, and you betrayed me! And to think I was going to— I should let— You can go  _fuck yourself_!" he shouted, and stormed for the door.

"Mister Malfoy," I yelled at his back, as he wrenched the door open. He slammed it behind him without a backwards glance.

Well, this was a fine mess of dragon dung. I didn't have  _time_  for this. What was I supposed to do? Run after the boy? Let him cool off?

For all my years of working here, I still had no idea how to deal with teenagers. Was this something he would get over, with time? Or would I have to work to mend the rift that I'd caused between us?

Did it even matter? Draco would never support Harry Potter, and as such, was firmly against the Dark Lord (not that he would ever know it). Perhaps it was best to distance him from me now, before the Dark Lord started paying too much attention to him.

I sank back into my armchair, my previous calm totally and utterly destroyed.

* * *

The week dragged on. Minerva was slowly warming up to me again after our latest spat, and Umbridge had gotten even more distant (much to me eternal relief). Minerva and I were even chatting again, although not quite with the ease that we had before the whole mess with Potter. It was such a relief to have her back, even if there was still some distance. I hadn't realised how much I'd come to rely on her earnest wit to get me through the daily drudgery of being a professor.

Her friendship was one of the few things that was actually good in my life, as much as I was embarrassed to admit it to myself. It was unsurprising, however. What else did I really have?

Draco, of course, stayed furious at me. He still came to potions, still turned in his work— but he no longer looked at me. He'd been angry at me before, but never like this. Before, it had always felt like a childish temper tantrum, something that would soon be forgotten. But now he burned with a righteous anger, an anger more grown-up than I was used to from him.

The Dark Lord had clearly noticed this development, and had taken to watching Draco and me with a worrying interest. If I told the boy to stay away from Potter, he likely wouldn't even try. Maybe it'd even draw him closer to the Dark Lord. But how else could I warn him of the danger?

Maybe he wouldn't listen to  _anything_  I said. Perhaps it was too late for that.

I'd also found the wards guarding the entrance to Bane's belfry. I hadn't cracked them yet, but I was progressing reasonably well and I had hopes that soon I would solve this mystery once and for all. (A small part of me wondered: what would solving this mystery actually do? I hadn't seen any evidence at all recently that Draco and Parkinson were still looking for the belfry. And they'd never asked for my help in the first place. Would it actually fix any of my problems? Or merely create more?)

At this point, I'd been looking for the belfry for so long that I couldn't quit. I  _had_  to know what secrets the room held— if it even held any at all.

Friday evening saw me once more in my quarters. We'd had an Order meeting over winter break (a complete waste of time, other than hearing updates on how Arthur was doing), so it was too soon to have another. With Minerva and Albus busy managing Umbridge's latest round of nonsense, I found myself utterly without anything to do (I certainly hadn't offered to help them— suffering needlessly was a Gryffindor trait).

Well, that wasn't quite true. I had essays to grade.

I was tempted to seek a teaching assistant in a bottle of whiskey, but shame stayed my hand. I hadn't given into temptation in months, and it was becoming a point of pride for me that I didn't need it. I could handle my problems. I could survive this, like I'd survived everything else.

My mind wouldn't stay on the essays, however. They were mind-numbingly painful to read, full of spelling errors and factual inaccuracies that could have been easily avoided by simply picking up a fucking textbook.

I found myself wondering— had Albus seen something? He'd been acting strange at mealtimes recently. Was Umbridge simply bringing down his spirits? Or was it something else?

A knock on my door interrupted my musings.

"Fuck!" I cursed, and then winced. Hopefully the soundproofing spells on my door silenced that.

I opened the door and was unsurprised to find the Dark Lord. Who else would it be? I had no other friends. (Not that the Dark Lord was a  _friend_ — dear Merlin.)

"Hello Severus," the Dark Lord said, with an easy grin.

I silently let him into my quarters, shutting the door carefully behind him.

"There's only one horcrux left," he told me, with a self-satisfied smile. Merlin. He'd been busy, then. I knew vaguely that he'd been going on trips without me, but I hadn't asked for details. I was curious, of course, but not completely stupid (yet).

"How fortunate." I started pulling on my boots. The laces tied themselves up automatically.

"It's at Malfoy Manor."

I paused, and looked up at the Dark Lord to find him staring down at me with a wicked gleam in his eye. I felt a flash of fear run through me, curdling my stomach and tensing my jaw. "Is it to be done, then?" I asked quietly. "Will you— will you kill him?"

The Dark Lord nodded. "Oh yes," he practically purred. "Soon enough, Lord Voldemort will be no more."

That was patently untrue, but I was hardly about to protest. I felt a strange sense of excitement, even though I knew it was meaningless. Not only would the Dark Lord  _still be alive_ , but this younger Dark Lord was planning on faking the existence of an elder Dark Lord until such a time when he could orchestrate a grand confrontation. This would change  _nothing_.

Except— I would no longer be in constant danger of being found out as a spy. True, there were other dangers, like being kicked out of Hogwarts for allegedly taking advantage of a student, or being sent to prison for— for what, actually? For helping Potter kill the Dark Lord?

It was over. I would be  _safe_.

I stood, fasting my traveling cloak around me. The Dark Lord was standing in my sitting room, flipping through the stack of essays I'd left on my desk.

Perhaps not safe then. Saf _er_ , at least. Hopefully.

"What's the plan?" I asked him, and he dropped the essays on the desk and turned around to face me.

"No plan," he said, his expression serious for once. "There are too many variables in play. I have some  _ideas_ , of course— but no strict plan, as such."

That was worrying. Even more worrying was the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his shoulders were held stiff— he was nervous.

"The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal," I murmured, the words escaping me without a thought.

"We  _were_  equal. At that moment— we were two halves of the same soul. But now I'm much, much more than that. He is but a shadow of the splendour I once was, and have again pulled myself up to. I am going to tear his head from his shoulders, strip his skin from his body; I will rise from the ashes of his flaming corpse." There was a light in the Dark Lord's eyes, in  _Potter's_  eyes— an unholy light that spoke of hellfire and brimstone. If someone told met that the Dark Lord was a demon, I would have believed it in a second. And as he smiled at me, grinning with more teeth than I remembered seeing in Potter's face, I saw the unholy truth of his words.

"Now, shall we adjourn?" And suddenly the vision was gone, and I was looking at a young, handsome teenager with a soft face and messy hair.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

The route to Malfoy manor was hauntingly familiar, and having a Potter look-alike along for the ride left me feeling distinctly unsettled.

It wasn't long at all before we were standing at the gate, right outside the edge of the wards. The gate was wide open— the Malfoys didn't need physical barriers to stop unwanted guests.

"I don't have the ability to bring guests through the wards," I warned the Dark Lord.

He nodded his understanding, but his eyes were closed and he seemed distracted.

The silence stretched on, as we stood there by the gate, unmoving. I didn't dare interrupt his concentration with a question— not when I was sure whatever he was doing would be suitably impressive.

I'd grown so accustomed to the silence that when the Dark Lord finally spoke, it startled me. "As you know, Severus, Harry Potter has not been added to the wards. But  _I_  have. Obviously, since I'm in there right now—" and how the Dark Lord was so certain, I had no idea. Perhaps something to do with the dreams the elder Dark Lord had been sending him? They must have some sort of connection, correct? "—which means that as long as I look like me to the wards, they'll let me without any issue."

That sounded exceptionally difficult, but all right. "Is it a problem that the other version of you is already inside the wards?"

The Dark Lord gave the gate a critical eye. Perhaps he had some magical sight that allowed him to see the wards, but to me it just looked like he was looking at nothing. He turned back to me. "It should be fine."

"How do you make yourself look more like, ahem, yourself?"

"Oh, I've already done that," the Dark Lord said carelessly. "After you." Well then. I knew an order when I heard it.

I walked through the gate, feeling the familiar brush of magic across my skin as the wards recognised me. As soon as I was a few steps in, I immediately whirled around to see the Dark Lord's entrance.

To my surprise, he hesitated for a moment before stepping through the barrier. He closed his eyes, mouth set in a grimace, but then the moment passed and he was on the other side of the wards, no worse for wear.

"Did the ward trigger?" I asked as soon as he opened his eyes. There would be no way to tell from the outside if the alarm had sounded.

The Dark Lord shook his head. "No, although it wasn't keen on letting me in."

I wasn't sure what exactly that meant, but this was hardly the time to ask. "What now?" I asked instead.

"I barge in and kill him."

I had a feeling it wouldn't be so simple. He seemed so confident, however, that I was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Actually," he said suddenly. "Let's get Lucius and Narcissa out of the way first. I don't want to risk them witnessing what I'm about to do." Was he nervous? Was that what this sudden change of mind suggested? The Dark Lord rarely changed his mind, since doing so meant one had made a mistake (and he maintained that he never made mistakes). Or— that was the  _elder_  Dark Lord. Perhaps this version truly was different. Or maybe just more inclined to reveal vulnerabilities to me than the elder Dark Lord ever had been.

Getting rid of the witnesses… What was he about to do?

Maybe if I got lucky, I wouldn't have to witness it either. "Kill them?" I asked reluctantly.

To my relief, the Dark Lord shook his head. "No, I'm going to need them later. We'll just put them to sleep. That'll prevent the manor's defences from rising against us as well. The last thing I want to deal with right now is a house elf with too much loyalty."

"Won't they know we're here anyway?"

"Don't worry, I got very good at hiding myself from house elves back when I was in school. I'll be able to hide you as well."

He cast something on me that for a second made me feel like my ears had been suddenly muffled, but then the feeling was gone and I nodded my thanks.

The Dark Lord cast on himself as well, and then made to enter the house. When I hesitated, he turned back to look at me with eyebrows raised.

"Will you be okay?" I asked, my face flushing. "Without— without your horcruxes."

The Dark Lord snorted. "Is that what you're worried about? There are other ways to make oneself immune to death." His words were dismissive, but it almost seemed like he was touched by my concern. He smiled slightly as he turned away, a genuinely soft smile.

We entered Malfoy manor; quietly, carefully. We were under Potter's cloak, which meant that we passed by the portraits unmolested. A silencing charm took care of our footsteps, and we walked slowly to make sure it covered both of us completely.

Given the hour, I led us to Lucius and Narcissa's private rooms. A careful listen at the door indicated that they were likely asleep, but when the Dark Lord opened the door, they were… Well, they were sharing an intimate moment.

The Dark Lord had cast before they even had time to do more than turn towards us. A moment later, and they were both stunned.

"They'll sleep until I wake them," he said softly, and we left the room in silence.

The Dark Lord seemed to know exactly where the other part of his soul was, for he led us through the hallways with confidence. Eventually, we came to a halt outside of Lucius' favourite study.

"Wait out here for me," the Dark Lord whispered. I wanted to protest, but my desire to stay away from the fighting far outweighed any concern I might have for him.

It was silly to be concerned, anyway. There was no point.

"Good luck," I said anyway.

The Dark Lord smiled softly at me, and ducked out from under the cloak and threw open the study door, already casting.

The door slammed behind him.

I waited with bated breath while the silence stretched on, only to curse quietly to myself when I realised that Lucius likely had his study silenced. Which meant I had no idea what was happening inside.

With that in mind, I inched over to the edge of the hallway, away from the door. If the unthinkable should happen, and the elder Dark Lord walked out of that room, I wanted to stay as hidden as possible.

If he did win, would my life be forfeit? Perhaps I could pretend that I had brought Potter here with the intent to turn him in, only to have been overcome by him when I wasn't paying attention.

Would the elder Dark Lord even believe that? I was, after all, incredibly competent. Could I make him believe that I had been stunned by a teenager? Perhaps once he'd seen how this Potter was fighting—

The door opened. I waited with bated breath.

The Dark Lord walked out of the room.

I heaved a heavy sigh. "Thank Merlin," I muttered, and pulled the cloak off.

"Were you worried?" The Dark Lord was panting and dripping with sweat, but he had a cheeky grin on his face and a spring in his step. He seemed— luminescent in his victory, like he was shining from within. He strode over to where I was standing, taking in my pale face with amusement.

"Of course not," I murmured, but the Dark Lord snorted in disbelief. His hair — Potter's hair — had become even more rumpled, almost as if someone had run their hands through it to deliberately muss it up. Potter was short for his age, and I towered over the Dark Lord's young form as he stood in front of me, looking up at me in perfect triumph.

For a moment, the rest of the world seemed irrelevant. Here was the man I'd pledged myself to multiple times, the man who'd taken me from nothing and raised me to a nothing with a potions mastery and buckets of self-loathing. The man I'd deceived and hated, the man I'd feared and loved.

"Well, you shouldn't have been. I won, and handily. He put up a good fight, obviously, but with his magical power weakened as it is, there was simply no hope for him." His cocky voice brought me back to earth, slamming me back into a painful awareness of the situation.

I nodded my understanding, feeling suddenly weary. I hadn't even done anything; why was I so tired?

"Now for the fun part," the Dark Lord said, taking the cloak from my hands and throwing it over the both of us. "Time to wake Lucius."

We didn't return to the castle until early afternoon the following day. After the Dark Lord had put Lucius under the Imperio, he'd spent hours carefully crafting behaviours and plans. We'd slept at the manor, and then the morning had been spent preparing the elder Dark Lord's body.

Although at this point, perhaps merely saying "the Dark Lord's body" would suffice— after all, it was true in every sense of the phrase.

The Dark Lord's plan was simple: his body would become a puppet, which Lucius would control, while the Dark Lord controlled Lucius. The puppet would then continue the elder Dark Lord's work, albeit in a simplified form. The Dark Lord was hesitant to attempt anything too complicated, since there was so many points of risk.

In a few weeks, the Dark Lord would then stage a confrontation at the Ministry, wherein he would "kill" himself once and for all. It needed to be public, so that the Ministry couldn't sweep the incident under the rug, and it would need to be spectacular, so that people remembered it.

There was a preservation charm on the body, a dark one that would go unnoticed underneath all the  _other_  dark magic the Dark Lord's body was steeped in, which meant that the body would be fresh when it needed to be. The Dark Lord would simply stage a duel, which he would obviously win with some grandiose display of flashy light magic (or something that  _looked_  light enough and accidental enough to pass off as Harry Potter's work). Lucius would drop the puppet, and that would be that.

The whole plan seemed overly simplistic to me, but the Dark Lord assured me that the challenging part wasn't convincing people that the elder Dark Lord had been killed at that moment, but that the person who had been killed  _was_  the elder Dark Lord. But that part would be simple, since we had the advantage of the truth.

The Dark Lord would also make sure there were a few lower-ranking death eaters there, who could get captured by the Ministry and interrogated to further add credence to the story that the Dark Lord had returned.

The most crucial part of the plan, however, was making sure most of the higher-ranking death eaters  _didn't_  get captured. The Dark Lord would, through Lucius, keep commanding them— and spread terror through the wizarding community through acts of "revenge." These death eaters would in fact be attacking strategically in order to make the Ministry look as incompetent as possible. The goal was to encourage public distrust of the government, thus paving the way for a certain public hero to form his own revolution.

I had no idea whether any of it would work— so much of it seemed to depend on the Dark Lord's assumptions about how people would act. He seemed confident, but he was almost always confident.

We entered the castle together, with the Dark Lord under Potter's invisibility cloak. He went off presumably to Gryffindor tower, and I returned to my quarters to catch up on some grading I'd meant to do this morning.

I'd only just sat down at my desk when a knock on the door disrupted the quiet peace of my sitting room.

"Fuck off," I muttered, but opened the door regardless.

It was Minerva. She looked livid.

"Severus," she said through gritted teeth. "Won't you  _kindly_  come with me to the headmaster's office?"

"Of course," I replied, my gut churning. This was likely about last night— but the Dark Lord was an expert lier. I imagined he could come up with something to remove suspicion on us with ease.

Perhaps there was some other reason Minerva was now seething beside me, as we made the walk in dead silence.

As we entered Albus' office, the Dark Lord peered around from the cushy armchair he was sitting in.

That… was a bad sign. That was a very, very bad sign.

"Severus," Albus said, and there was absolutely no twinkle in his eye. "Could you kindly explain where you were last night?"

I hadn't imagined— We hadn't— In my panic, I said the first thing that came to mind. "We were collecting potions ingredients." Immediately, I mentally cursed myself. That was a  _terrible_  excuse, and the Dark Lord's quiet snort proved it.

_And_  made my excuse look even worse, wonderful.

"Really," Albus stated, doubt evident in his tone.

"They obviously weren't!" Minerva shouted, glaring at me. "I  _told_  you Albus, I  _warned_  you, Severus has been  _taking advantage_ —"

"Careful, Minerva," Albus interrupted, eyeing the Dark Lord pointedly.

Merlin, were they trying to protect his fucking innocence? If I  _had_  been shagging him, you could be damn sure he wouldn't be innocent.

As if I would ever sleep with Potter in the first place! "What are you accusing me of?" I said coldly. I couldn't believe that my colleagues, my  _friends_ , the people I trusted, would seriously think I'd—

"Impropriety," Minerva responded snidely.

"Minerva, please," Albus warned. "There's no proof of anything."

"That's because there isn't anything for there to be proof of!" I burst out. "I would  _never_  engage in any sort of dishonourable activity with a student, and even if I  _were_ , it damn well wouldn't be with Potter!"

"Hey," the Dark Lord said, looking hurt.

I was going to  _kill him_. Was he  _enjoying_  this? Enjoying watching my professional integrity get slandered by my two closest friends? (The answer was sadly obvious.)

"Please, Severus, just tell us where you were," Albus said calmly, speaking in what I'm sure he thought was a  _fair_  and  _reasonable_  tone. I thought I wanted to curse him.

"Since you don't seem inclined to believe anything I say, why don't you ask  _Potter_?" I said snidely.

Albus glanced over at the Dark Lord and sighed. "Harry,  _please_."

Merlin, he was actually begging. I felt a flicker of unease go down my spine.

"What?" the Dark Lord said, wearing just as mulish an expression as Potter at his best.

"Tell us where you were, clear up this confusion," Albus pleaded.

"Nowhere," the Dark Lord mumbled, sinking down further into his chair. Oh gods. I was going to get fired. The Dark Lord must have been purposefully throwing me under the hippogriff. Had I done something to upset him? Had he decided he was done with me already?

"Harry, has Professor Snape hurt you in any way?" Minerva asked gently, crouching down next to the boy's chair and gripping the armrest.

"No!" the Dark Lord protested, and glanced over at me. "It's not— it's not like that," he finished lamely.

Albus stared at the Dark Lord for a long moment, and then gave me a considering look. "Severus, would you please step outside for a moment.

I couldn't believe this. "You can't be serious!" I protested, but withered under Minerva's harsh glare.

"Just for a few minutes, so that we can talk to Harry alone," Albus placated, but there was a hint of steel underlying his words that told me he would brook no protest.

I stepped outside reluctantly, letting the door fall shut behind me. The door had clearly been spelled, because no matter how hard I listened I couldn't hear anything.

Why hadn't the Dark Lord come up with some excuse? He'd defended me, sure, but there was no doubt in my mind that should he have chosen so, he could have made all this go away.

Maybe— A thought struck me. Maybe he was trying to avoid Albus' suspicion. Maybe he couldn't say anything that would earn him too much attention.

Or maybe he was offering me up as a distraction, so that his schemes would go unnoticed.

But surely the Dark Lord's plans would take years? Whatever distraction I offered would only last a few months at the longest. At that point either the allegations would be over or I would have definitely been fired.

It struck me as supremely unfair that Slughorn had never had to face anything like this. He'd taken advantage of countless students (although all of them had been of-age— certainly he'd never slept with a fifteen-year-old Boy-Who-Lived).

Merlin, what a mess. I should have let Potter take that poison in peace. He'd probably been going mad, torn between the desires of the horcrux and the feelings of anguish that being so near a dark object made one feel. No wonder he'd been so crazy, in the end.

Not that I believed he was truly dead, yet. I still had hopes that one day he would arise from the ashes— but what ashes? The Dark Lord's ashes? What miracle would have to occur for the Dark Lord to finally  _lose_? The first time, it'd taken a prophecy (which the Dark Lord now believed referred to him in both respects, a viewpoint I was grudgingly coming around to). What would it take now? What would it cost, in the meantime?

Perhaps Albus could have been able to help. The contract kept my lips sealed, however, and—

And couldn't contracts be broken? It was almost impossible to make an air tight contract. The Dark Lord had put Potter's life down as collateral, but wouldn't that mean he would die as well? And now that the elder Dark Lord was gone, all the horcruxes destroyed—

Why hadn't I remembered the contract? Why hadn't I already devised a dozen schemes for slipping Albus information? It was like there was this barrier in my mind— or was there? The very idea was ludicrous. But with the elder Dark Lord gone, with all the horcruxes destroyed—

The door opened.

Minerva looked sullen as she let me back into the room. I took that as a good sign.

Albus had a pinched expression on his face, as if he'd eaten too many of his stupid lemon drops.

The Dark Lord looked— well, he looked like a moody Potter, sitting low in his chair and scowling at the floor.

"Well?" I asked, trying to hide my nervousness.

"Harry has confirmed your story," Albus informed me, although he didn't look like he bought it for a minute.

"I don't know what you did to that boy to make him lie for you—" oh Merlin, that sounded so wrong given the context of this conversation. Minerva didn't seem to notice, however, for she barrelled onwards— "but so help me god if I see one  _single_  hair out of place on his head, I will transfigure you into one of Hagrid's rock cakes!"

Albus and I both winced at that, and the Dark Lord looked inappropriately amused.

"And then I will feed you to the giant squid," she added coldly. She gave me another long, threatening look before sweeping out of the room.

The three of us sat in silence for a moment.

Albus leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. He let out a long sigh, and for a moment he truly looked his age.

"Severus, since there is no evidence against you, there will not be an investigation." An investigation would honestly probably condemn me more than the current evidence, even though I  _wasn't_  sleeping with the boy. "But you must admit, this looks very, very bad."

"Yes," I agreed grudgingly. "However, I would hope that my long history of professionalism would inspire  _trust_  and  _confidence_. Why are you so quick to assume the worst?" The last part came out more plaintive than I would have liked, and I felt ashamed at how genuinely distressed I sounded. It was so easy to wear a cold, cool exterior, to assume the persona of someone utterly devoid of feeling. That was who I  _wanted_  to be, and perhaps I always felt that if I wore that skin long enough, that would be who I would become.

But this betrayal that I felt, this feeling of having your faith in people shaken— it meant that I hadn't become anything close to that, not at all. And the worst part was that that failure was now obvious.

Albus looked pained. "Severus, you must understand— I learned occlumency once. The trust it takes between teacher and student— the level of intimacy that is required… It's not something to consider lightly."

"That doesn't mean—"

Albus interrupted me. "Of course, of course. But look at how comfortable you've become in Harry's presence." He cast a meaningful glance at where the boy was sitting, watching our exchange with appropriately wide eyes.

I deflated, my anger at once taken from me. He was right, of course, although he didn't know why. I  _was_  too comfortable in the Dark Lord's presence. If he had been any other student, I never would have had a conversation like this in front of him. But I'd grown so used to him being around, so used to him owning every part of me, that I'd failed to even recognise that I was being too honest.

I was slipping. I was slipping fast, and people were noticing. It seemed like I'd gotten away with it for now, but the next mistake I made could cost me my job, or even my life.

"I would never sleep with a student," I said quietly, not able to meet Albus' eyes. All the fight had gone out of me. What did I care if Albus and Minerva thought I was abusing my position? What difference would it make to me?

"People do strange things for love," Albus said, with an uncertain expression.

I felt nauseous. I genuinely wanted to vomit. "Love?" I said, in a quiet, strangled voice. The very idea was  _absurd_. With everything Albus knew of me, the fact that he would suggest I was in love with Lily's  _son_ — Did he think me a monster?

"As I said, I'm not convinced of your guilt," he said hastily.  _Not convinced of my guilt_. Wonderful. I could  _feel_  the faith he had in me. "But Minerva thinks— After Lily, after the young Mister Black, she thinks that perhaps—" Albus cut himself off, too embarrassed to continue.

I glanced over at the Dark Lord unwittingly, but I supposed he already knew this. He'd known Regulus and I— But that Albus would throw that back in my face as a reason I couldn't be trusted…

"Minerva is overprotective of her students," I said hoarsely. We'd been friends for  _years_. I knew, of course, that the situation looked bad, but to be condemned based on childish infatuations was supremely unfair.

"We will need to stop the occlumency lessons," Albus ventured, looking at me nervously. Nervous to see what my reaction would be, probably. "Harry, how have you been progressing?"

"I haven't been having any dreams, if that's what you mean," the Dark Lord said. He looked like he felt awkward being here, and I wondered how much of that was genuine. The Dark Lord loved knowing things, and perhaps he was enjoying my suffering.

"That will have to suffice," Albus said gravely. I was too tired to be offended. None of this mattered, anyway. Potter wasn't some fifteen-year-old who needed to be protected. Potter was gone. Albus and Minerva were running in circles to protect the innocence of a boy who  _didn't even exist._

"Was that all?" I asked cooly.  _Was that all_. As if this had been some trivial matter. I desperately wanted to retreat to my quarters and never come out.

"Yes," Albus sighed, and I swept out of the room without even saying farewell.

I wanted to rage, but I was too tired to even feel anger. I walked back to my quarters, hands shoved into my pockets and cloak flowing gently behind me. I felt— defeated.

Which meant it was undoubtedly the worst possible time to encounter two students misbehaving. That wasn't the worst part, however— the worst part was  _which_ students.

"Mister Weasley, Miss Carrow," I said, and the pair broke apart instantly. I stared at them, utterly horrified.

"Er—" one of the Weasley twins said, glancing between me and one of the Carrow twins nervously. She wasn't wearing a prefect badge, so likely it was Hestia, but I couldn't be sure.

They looked at me in nervous anticipation, waiting for me to rain down on them with points taken and detentions galore. Normally, I would have been thrilled at the opportunity, but now I found I simply didn't care.

"I'm fairly sure one of the educational decrees forbids boys and girls from being within six inches of each other," I said mildly, taking in their stunned faces.

"Er—" the Weasley twin said again, while Miss Carrow looked at me suspiciously.

"Are you going to give us detention?" she said bluntly. Weasley was clearly horrified by her blasé attitude, but I found myself reluctantly amused. She should have been in Gryffindor.

"No," I said honestly. Weasley gaped.

"Are you going to take points?" she pressed further.

"No," I said again. Now Weasley looked like he was only a moment from having his jaw fall clean off his face.

"Why not?"

"Hestia!" Weasley cried, gripping her arm tightly.

"Because I don't give a shit." And I found that suddenly, that was absolutely, irrevocably true. Who fucking cared if students were  _behaving inappropriately_? They would always find some way to mess around with each other. What did it matter? Let them be happy for a change. Let them make mistakes and be stupid and live the rest of their lives with regrets. None of it  _mattered_. Life was a giant pile of shit, and if they wanted to delude themselves then I wouldn't begrudge them for it.

I just didn't fucking care anymore.

Miss Carrow was still staring at me, her gaze assessing. I met her stare evenly, unconcerned by her scrutiny.

Weasley looked extremely concerned, however. "Are you alright, professor?" he asked uncertainly.

Was I alright. Of course I was alright. Why wouldn't I be? I was always alright. "That is none of your concern," I answered shortly, and Weasley flinched. There was a moment of silence as we all considered each other. "Get out of my sight," I finally said, although there wasn't any strength in the words.

Miss Carrow and Mister Weasley hurried past me, and from where I was standing I could hear them whispering as they left.

"What was that?" Weasley asked in alarm.

"Who knows, George," Miss Carrow replied quietly. George Weasley then. He was better at potions than his twin, more able to focus. It made it painfully obvious when they did each other's work.

"It's Fred, actually," Weasley flirted. That confirmed George Weasley's identity.

"Fred?! Does that mean you were looking for Hestia?" said most certainly Hestia Carrow.

"Ha! As if you could pass yourself off as a prefect," Weasley teased back.

"And what would  _you_  know about prefects? You're not secretly Percy, are you?"

And then they were too far away, and their voices faded into obscurity.

I don't know how long I stood there, simply standing unmoving in that hallway, but my mind stayed curiously blank. Occlumency was about mental control, being able to direct your thoughts where you wanted them to go. That control had been slipping recently, farther and farther out of my grasp. But this felt like occlumency at its most fundamental— completely clearing the mind, removing any extraneous thoughts.

I felt an inner tranquility. I was at peace. The rest of the world was irrelevant. The Dark Lord had won, anyway. Soon there would be nothing left.

What was one man's suffering in the face of total annihilation?


	18. Severus Learns to Survive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this chapter contains mentions of drugs and suicide. I don't think it's enough to raise the rating, but it's definitely a higher T than previous chapters. 
> 
> This chapter is also a bit experimental for me. I quite like it, but I am uncertain how it will be received.

**Chapter 18 - Severus Learns to Survive**

There was a strange sound in my sitting room. A dripping sound, like water from a leaky faucet.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Where was it coming from?

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Should I investigate?

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I stared up at the smooth stone ceiling. The ground was also stone, hard and unforgiving on my back.

Why hadn't I gotten a rug?

I'd never needed a rug before.

Something other than stone, to add a trace of comfort into my life.

What did I need comfort for? Nothing in life was comfortable. To  _live_  was to be uncomfortable.

My toes were cold. I wriggled them experimentally to see if they were still functioning. Why wasn't I wearing socks?

Socks. What good were socks? Socks came and went, never sticking around for very long. I had a whole box of them, and what good had it ever done me?

I wasn't wearing boots, either. But that must have been the case, if I wasn't wearing socks. Could you wear boots without socks? The very idea seemed crazy.

My white button-up, the same type of shirt that I wore every single day, was unbuttoned. I had a white undershirt on underneath, so at least my chest was spared the cold, unforgiving air that my toes were currently being exposed to. Speaking of my toes… I wriggled them experimentally if they were still functioning.

Why wasn't I wearing my cloak? Didn't I usually wear my cloak? When teaching, certainly. It gave me an air of formality that I clung to like a life-preserver, drowning in a sea of adolescent angst.

At least I was wearing trousers. My usual black wool trousers that offered protection from the dungeon chill. It was easy, dressing as a professor. I wore the same exact thing every single day. I didn't even have any other clothes in my closet, at this point. The only time I'd ever had to dress however I wanted had been when I worked for the Dark Lord, and quite honestly, it had been terrible.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Was that the sound of the ocean? Slowly filling my quarters, drip by painful drip, until I had no choice but to drown.

What would happen if I did drown? Who would miss me? Was Regulus waiting on the other side? Was Lily?

Would they scorn me, if they saw me again? After everything I'd done, who I'd become… Would  _I_  scorn me?

Lily had had firey red hair, that blazed when it caught the light. When I'd met her as a child, she'd been the only light in a life of darkness, and I'd clung to her like a starving man clings to bread. I'd followed her to Hogwarts, painfully aware that if not for her I'd be nothing. I'd begged the hat to put me in Gryffindor, or Ravenclaw, or anything but Slytherin— but the hat had seen me for who I truly was: a small, scared boy who was lost to the shadows, who wore a permanent disguise and wished desperately to someday be big enough that no one could step on him.

The hat had been cruel, in its honesty. It had condemned me to a life of suffering with its choice.

I'd never grown big enough. You couldn't, as it turned out. There was always someone bigger looking for a way to reach higher.

Lily had been the innocent I'd always dreamed of being but had never been. She'd been kind and passionate, caring about others with a ferocity that had always amazed me. I'd loved her desperately, the way a house-cat might love a lion. She'd always been bigger than me, better than me, so far out of my reach— that one day I'd stopped reaching.

Regulus had been there, after that. He'd been kind as well. Perhaps that's why I'd loved them. I'd seen something in them that had never existed in myself.

Reg had been dark inside, darker even than I. He'd been twisted and warped, turned into something he hated. He'd fought back furiously against everything that was forced upon him, something I had never been strong enough to do.

I missed them both desperately.

Was that what the afterlife was? There must be an afterlife— how else did ghosts exist? There had to be  _something_  that came after. I needed to see them again. Both of them. Either of them. I needed someone to look at me and tell me that there was still something in me worth fighting for, worth defending.

What was left of me?

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I tried to get up, but only succeeded in moving my leg around. I heard a clink, the sound of glass hitting glass.

Bottles.

Drip… Drip… Drip…

That was probably the last of my liquor then.

I'd been drinking. I'd been drinking a lot, actually. For once, I didn't have any essays to grade. I'd just given everyone a B. If they cared, they'd complain. Maybe I'd change it.

The only reason I'd even assigned essays was because the syllabus had been set in stone years ago. Aside from small changes here and there, all the assignments were pre-written. I'd been handing them out automatically, not even paying attention to the topics.

There'd been an accident in one of my classes today. I'd had a fierce headache ( _hangover,_  my mind helpfully corrected) and hadn't been paying attention to the third-years. One of them had blown up her cauldron. No one died, but five students were sent to the hospital wing.

That had been my last class of the week, and afterwards I'd come straight back to my quarters. I skipped dinner, deciding instead to fill my stomach with whiskey.

Bottles clinked again. I hadn't even realised I'd moved.

Jenny Lee had gotten burns all over her face and hands. Madam Pomfrey would be able to fix it. She fixed everything.

Had she fixed Jenny yet? I had no idea. I hadn't asked. I hadn't spoken to anyone since this afternoon.

I'd dismissed the class early. They'd been too frightened to appreciate it, and had rushed to clear out their cauldrons and put them away.

Stupid. They didn't know vanishing charms yet. There easily could have been another accident in the confusion. Someone else could have gotten hurt.

My only job — because clearly educating these imbeciles was impossible — was to keep them safe as they went through the strict Ministry curriculum. My  _only_  job.

There were always minor accidents, ones that were impossible to avoid, but usually the injuries were so minor (from a wizard's perspective) that even I could have healed them with my limited medi-wizard training.

But Miss Lee's burns had been far beyond the usual classroom injuries. I wouldn't have been able to heal her myself even if I  _had_  been able to get my hands to stop shaking.

It had been hard enough to bark out the order for Williams and Teren to take the injured to the hospital wing.

Would she lose her vision? The burns had been severe. Would she lose the use of her hands?

Would she ever be able to brew potions again, to explode another cauldron full of caustic liquid?

I should have been paying attention. I should have noticed the  _second_  her harmless wit-sharpening potion had turned into a ticking time bomb. The lionfish spines never should have even been on her desk. Why hadn't I noticed?

With the elder Dark Lord dead, who  _was_  I? For so long I'd been a death eater, then a spy, and then there had been the constant threat of his return… Even in those long years of peace, Albus had been constantly on edge. He'd made sure I maintained all of my old contacts, carefully coaxed information out of people I'd once called comrades. His return had felt inevitable, in a way, after I'd spent so long preparing for it.

And now he was dead.

So who was I? Just another Hogwarts professor, who'd fought in the war. Except I couldn't even do that. My students had been severely injured under my watch. If I couldn't keep them safe, what was even the  _point_ of me?

That was the trick, wasn't it? The sleight-of-hand that made the magic work. There  _was_  no point.

I was alive through a random string of events that had turned more and more against my favour. I was an accident of being. I'd had no positive impact on the world whatsoever. Everything I touched turned to ash.

The bottles clinked by my feet. What was I doing here?

My mind drifted back to Potter's concoction at the beginning of the year. I had a calming draught in my desk. It would take much to turn it into a deadly poison that would lull the drinker into a soft, quiet death.

Somehow, I found the force of will to push myself to my feet. I stumbled over to my chair, wincing at the painful feeling of the cold ground against my numb toes.

I didn't find the draught in the first drawer I opened, but I did find my flask that I'd forgotten about. It was mostly full.

I took a sip gently, savouring the feeling of pain on my tongue. Then I drank down the rest, the burning feeling spreading down my throat and into my stomach.

How much had I drunk today? I genuinely couldn't remember. Perhaps I wouldn't even need the potion. I'd die of alcohol poisoning first.

My mind tripped over that word. Was I going to die?

My wandering hands found the calming draught in the bottom drawer, and I examined the vial. There were about eight doses.

I uncorked it and drank the whole thing.

Wait, that wasn't right. Wasn't I supposed to— I was supposed to do something to the calming draught? Eight doses, mixed with the amount of alcohol I'd had… That might actually be lethal, I realised with a mute horror.

Except that didn't matter, did it, because I'd been planning on brewing poison anyway.

My eyelids felt heavy. The room, which had been spinning wildly around me, suddenly came to a gentle standstill and faded into non-being.

I closed my eyes, my mind throwing images up across the inside of my eyelids. I was a rock, sinking into the ocean.

The waves buffeted me, sending me twirling as I fell deeper and deeper, pulled by the call of the deep.

I went where the currents took me, traveling through the murky depths. I traveled the globe, ever twisting and turning in a new direction,

Eons stretched behind me, and the slow tangle of the water eroded me into billions of tiny pieces, each flowing and twisting and curling through the water—

No, that wasn't right. I wasn't  _in_  the water anymore, I  _was_  the water. My presence expanded, filling up vast trenches and lapping at sandy shores. I was full of life, creatures of all kinds moving—

There was a knock on my door. But how could I answer it? I was the ocean.

Decades passed, and I felt a hand on my shoulder (but how? I had no shoulders) and a sigh near my ear (but I had no ears).

"Oh Severus."

A twinge of memory sparked within me, from centuries long ago. Was that Albus? Had he come for me?

Somehow, I opened my eyes. But it wasn't Albus' face that filled my vision. It was Potter's.

"What have you done to yourself?" the Dark Lord asked, his fingers digging into my shoulder.

I felt suddenly claustrophobic, being between four tiny walls. How did I fit into such a small space?

"For fuck's sake," I dimly heard the Dark Lord say.

The world went black.

* * *

When I opened my eyes, I was staring up at the familiar ceiling of my bed chambers. Despite the fact that it looked like every other stone ceiling in the castle, it was intimately familiar to me. The whorls and crannies were my long-time compatriots, and their familiar shapes provided me a moment's relief before the utter confusion of my situation returned.

I couldn't… I couldn't remember anything, actually. I certainly didn't remember going to sleep in my clothes (although judging by how cold my feet were, I wasn't wearing socks).

I turned my head. I  _certainly_  didn't remember going to bed with the Dark Lord.

It was hard to argue with his presence, however, stretched out next to me. His arms were bent, hands tucked beneath his head, and when I turned his elbow almost hit me in the eye.

"You're awake then," he stated, moving his elbow and staring me in the eyes.

"Apparently." My voice was hoarser than I expected. I felt… tired, maybe, except on a fundamental level. I felt like I'd taken six stunners straight to the chest, or that I'd been eaten by a dragon. Not just physically, but mentally as well. I felt like a wet rag someone had wrung dry.

"What do you remember?" The Dark Lord had gone back to staring at the ceiling. I felt a little better to not have his gaze pinned on me, but I still was unsettled by how close he was. Lying in bed together felt like a level of intimacy I hadn't thought the Dark Lord capable of.

I frowned. "Did I go swimming?"

The Dark Lord snorted. "In alcohol, maybe."

That was right. The drinking. The  _calming draughts_. The… "The accident," I breathed out. Merlin, how had I forgotten, even for a second?

"Is that why you tried to kill yourself? The accident?"

"I didn't—" but I cut myself off before I could finish protesting. His words triggered some horrifying recognition in me. "I was so drunk I could barely stand. I'm not sure I was in my right mind." I'd meant to turn the calming draughts into a poison, only I'd been too drunk to remember. Strange, how being too drunk and both put my life at risk and saved it.

"You drank an entire vial of calming draught," the Dark Lord pointed out.

I grimaced. "An unfortunate mistake." I looked over at the Dark Lord at the same time that he turned to look at me, and our eyes met. He rolled over onto his side facing me, head propped up on his elbow.

"If Minerva knew you were here, she would throw a fit," I observed mildly.

"Probably," the Dark Lord answered, with a smile. I still couldn't believe they'd gone to school together.

I was scared to know what time it was (or even what day it was), but I asked anyway.

"It's Saturday, early morning." He was clearly amused by my question, but I was too worn out to be properly embarrassed.

I'd started drinking Friday, right after class, which meant that I hadn't lost too much time. Likely no one would have noticed my absence. Potter, however… "Will they notice you missing?"

"No."

Well. I suppose that confirmed that he'd been  _meant_  to get me in trouble. Or hadn't cared enough to bother keeping me out of it, before.

"What happened to the students?" I made myself ask.

The Dark Lord considered me for a moment. "They'll recover, eventually. One girl is going to have to wear bandages for a couple of weeks."

I closed my eyes. The burns were severe, then, but not life-threatening. The girl would be okay.

"Why did you try to kill yourself?" I heard the Dark Lord ask again. He didn't believe it was an accident. How did I answer that? What was I supposed to say?

In the end, I was too exhausted to think about it. "The accident was my fault. I was hungover and wasn't paying attention. That girl could have died because I was careless."

The Dark Lord stayed silent, so I continued. "I'm not a spy anymore. I'm not anything. My only job is keeping these children safe, and I've failed even at that. Why not kill myself? Who would care?" I must have still been drunk, to be so honest. Or maybe I truly didn't care anymore.

I opened my eyes to see the Dark Lord's expression, but he'd turned back to stare up at the ceiling again. His face was completely blank.

Finally, he said "I've never known you to be one for self-pity, Severus." His tone was neutral, even though his words were harsh. "But one must make allowances for circumstances."

"What circumstances?" I asked, my mouth gone dry. There was a fluttering in my stomach.

"You've been having a shit time, haven't you?" the Dark Lord said, and smiled wryly over at me.

I felt a rush of relief. A sense of validation flowed through me, as if simply  _hearing_  the words made everything just a tiny bit better. "Yes," I managed, my voice choked. I was embarrassed by my emotional weakness, but if even the  _Dark Lord_  understood, then perhaps I wasn't completely hopeless after all.

"I'd rather you didn't kill yourself, Severus," the Dark Lord informed me, and I had to look away, too embarrassed to hold his earnest gaze.

"I won't," I promised quietly.

"Good."

We fell back into silence once more, and all I could hear was the Dark Lord's quiet breathing next to me.

I'd been overly melodramatic, last night. I'd imbibed in order to forget, and instead it'd left me no better than the teenagers I so often scorned.

I would do better going forward. I  _was_  better. I was better than this.

* * *

Sunday afternoon saw me standing in front of a painting of Margo Malidene, a mildly well-known magical architect.

Fitting, perhaps, that her portrait should mark the entrance to Bane's belfry.

Of course, knowing  _where_  it was was just part of the battle— I also needed to know how to get inside. That's why I was standing in front of the painting, examining the wards through an enchanted spyglass.

"Like what you see, dearie?" Margo Malidene leered at me.

Margo Malidene had been moved to this spot only around a hundred years ago, which meant she wouldn't have seen the belfry open. Before her, there'd been a painting of talking grapes.

I wasn't surprised they'd removed it.

"Did you know your portrait lies at the entrance to one of the most famous Hogwarts legends of all time?" That wasn't quite true, but she didn't need to know that. The belfry had mostly been forgotten, these days. Another reason no one had managed to find it yet.

"Really?" she preened, straightening her cloak. "Well, I suppose I'm not surprised."

"Indeed. Once I rediscover the passage way, you'll be properly famous. People will be visiting you all the time." One thing I'd noticed during my search for the belfry was that many portraits were quite lonely. The ones away from the main hallways hardly ever saw people, and while they could travel, it wasn't quite the same.

"You think so?" Margo looked thrilled at the prospect. Being a portrait seemed terrible, I suddenly realised. I would have to make sure no one ever painted a portrait of me. I would hate that existence.

"Yes," I murmured, and suddenly I saw it. There, in the wards, a flicker: could that be some sign of weakness?

I cast every detection spell I knew (but only ones that had ben invented after Bane had died— best to stay on the safe side). There, another flicker.

Ward breaking had come a long way since Bane had first set these. Once I knew where the weakness was located, it didn't take me long at all before I'd cracked them enough to allow myself to slip through. Back then they hadn't had a wardbreaker that could disrupt chained wards; now it was the first thing people defended against.

Still, it made my life easier. I gently pulled Margo's portrait away from the wall, to reveal a dark passage. I felt the thrill of victory, which I quickly tamped down. It wasn't over yet. There could be nasty surprises hidden inside.

"Wish me luck," I muttered to the portrait, although I ignored her response.

If I hadn't managed to break the wards, I would have seen nothing but empty wall. Instead, the dusty passage stretched in front of me. I lit the end of my wand with nary a thought, and stepped through the portrait hole.

The passage was longer than I expected, and I found myself hastily bringing up a mental map of this floor. Surely I should have hit a wall by now? But that was magic, I supposed. Nothing was ever for sure.

To my surprise, the passage eventually reached a fork. The left side went up, the right side, down.

The stairs up undoubtedly led to the belfry… That was rather the point of a belfry, after all. But where did the other staircase lead? There hadn't been anything in Bane's diary about  _this._

Ultimately, my curiosity got the best of me. I would have plenty of time to discover Bane's belfry. First, I would see what was down this mysterious corridor.

The staircase led down maybe two floors (the stairs weren't separated into landings; they just led straight down) before emptying out into a wide stone room. The walls were mostly bare, as far as I could tell in the dim light of my wand, except for one: a series of tiny hatches with different symbols scorched onto them. The hatches were all about eye height, and as I walked along the wall examining them (a hat, a stool, a star, a wand…) I found myself drawing to a halt (a lion, an eagle, a badger, a… snake).

A snake. How utterly unlike a snake I was, when I brazenly pulled the hatch open.

Instantly, voices flitted through, the voices of my students. Through the hatch, although there was some sort of grating in front of it that blocked my view, was the Slytherin common room.

_How_? We couldn't be farther down than the second floor, at most. And likely these other hatches would lead to other common rooms. What magic made this possible? It seemed unrealistic that one man had managed all this himself. Perhaps it had always been here?

My mind hastily reconstructed my memory of the Slytherin common room, trying to decipher where the hatch was based on what I could see. I was pretty sure it was on the same wall as the fireplace, but towards the corner. That was rather a dark corner, wasn't it? Nestled in the corner was a small table with a few armchairs placed around it.

Indeed, I could hear voices drifting up from below.

Draco, Parkinson, and Nott.

"You didn't tell him?" I heard Nott ask. I craned forward to see if I could get a better view— someone's shoe came into view.

"No," Draco replied. He was still upset. Merlin, I'd fucked up. I would find some way to make it right, Dark Lord be damned. "I just— didn't want to."

"But you're the one who wanted to tell him in the first place!" Parkinson protested.

"I know that!" Draco snapped at her. "But… But I can't, okay?"

"It's okay, Draco," Nott said soothingly. "If you don't want to, you don't have to."

"It's safer for us, anyway," Parkinson admitted with a sigh. "I don't know what he'd do if he knew we'd told."

"We never should have made that deal," Nott muttered.

"Easy for you to say!" Parkinson scoffed. "You're not the one who was pregnant!"

Oh Merlin. Parkinson had been pregnant. I'd nearly forgotten. The miscarriage hadn't been an accident, then. Had she made a deal for the potion? But with whom?

"Pans, shhh," Draco soothed. "We understand. It was for all of us, really, since we didn't know who— who the father—"

Fucking hell. That was far more information than I'd ever wanted to know about my students.

The whole thing painted an interesting picture, however. Draco, Nott, and Parkinson had been involved in some illicit relationship (Zabini hadn't been exaggerating after all, it seemed), and Parkinson had gotten pregnant. Since neither Draco nor Nott were advanced enough to brew the potion, they'd gotten help from some outside party. The party in question had then asked them to do—  _something_  that involved me. Get me interested in the belfry, perhaps? Draco had regretted it, and wanted to tell me everything, but I'd fucked that up.

But why would anyone go to such lengths to get me to find the belfry? And why  _me,_  in particular? Was there something in that belfry they wanted me to find?

I glanced back at the staircase nervously. I could barely see it in the darkness. I closed the hatch as quietly as I could, seriously contemplating returning to my quarters and pretending none of this had ever happened.

In the end, however, my curiosity once more overtook me. What was in that belfry that was so important?

There was only one way to find out.

* * *

I climbed the stairs cautiously. Bane's diary hadn't been very descriptive on what to expect from the belfry, and now that I knew someone  _wanted_  me here, I was even more cautious.

There was a plain trap door at the top of the stairs, leading upwards. There weren't any details as far as I could see, but the poor lighting made seeing anything difficult.

Was I really doing this? Was I really going to go charging in, no better than a Gryffindor?

On the other hand… with the elder Dark Lord dead, what did I truly have to fear? He'd been the evil in the world, the monster underneath the bed.

I steadfastly ignored the part of me that whispered that he was still alive, only in a different form. Whatever the younger Dark Lord was, he was…  _different_  than his elder counterpart.

Of course, Friday night I'd try to kill myself. So what did I truly have to fear?

What the hell. I opened the trap door, and climbed up the ladder that slid down.

My jaw dropped as I finally entered the belfry. It was—  _Merlin_ , it was magnificent. There were no walls, just a fence that went around the perimeter at about waist-height. The belfry must have been located in the very heart of Hogwarts itself, for from here you could see expanses of roofs blanketed in thick white snow; courtyards clustered together, green with enchanted warmth; towers pointing up towards the sky; and then past that, glittering white lawns stretching out towards the snow-covered forest.

It took my breath away.

In the middle of the belfry hung an enormous brass bell. Missing from it was the thing that hung inside that actually rang the bell (I had no idea what it was called), explaining why I'd never  _heard_  a bell in the castle before.

Other than that, the room was empty, apart from a thick layer of dust that blanketed the floor.

It was chilly up here, but no colder than in the dungeons. Certainly it didn't feel like it was exposed to the elements, the way the lack of walls would suggest.

I pulled out my spyglass and looked through it: indeed, the view immediately disappeared under layers and layers of thick wards.

I found myself at an impasse, actually. As spectacular as the view was, there didn't seem to be any  _point_  to this room. Was the real secret of the belfry in the room below, with the spy holes? Perhaps the legend had been confused with time.

Then again, the wards were clearly tied to this room specifically. Why ward it so carefully if there was nothing here?

I paced around the room, examining every inch of it through my spyglass.

Nothing. There was nothing here. After all this time, I felt— disappointed, perhaps, despite the wonderful potential of the room downstairs. I couldn't see anything here that someone would go through all that trouble to get me to find. Why was I here? What was the point.

With a sigh, I tucked my spyglass into my pocket and made for the trap door. I'd need to go over the journal again, perhaps do some more research—

A loud crack echoed behind me, and I whirled around, wand practically leaping into my hand.

I lowered the wand slightly when I saw who it was: a grizzly old house-elf, wearing— "Kreacher?" I asked in amazement, staring at the elf.

"He speaks to me," Kreacher mumbled to himself, staring at me. "He knows Kreacher's name."

"Of course I know your name, you idiot elf! I've only spoken to you over a hundred times. What in the blazes are you doing here?"

"The traitor asks what Kreacher is doing here," the elf muttered. I rolled my eyes at his dramatics. "Does he not realise?"

"Realise what?" I asked, thinking back suddenly to Draco's conversation. But Kreacher was a Black house-elf, and—

Draco's mother was a Black.

I felt unease course through me. "Did you ask Draco to lure me here?"

"So he does know something." Kreacher stepped towards me, and I took a step backwards.

"How did you know I was here?" I asked, wondering if he would ever bother actually answering any of my questions.

"Kreacher watches you." Actually, him addressing me directly was far, far worse.

"You watch me?" Merlin, had Black put him up to this? This was absurd.

"Kreacher knows you," he said, staring at me intently. His wizened face was crinkled in concentration. "Kreacher waits."

"Waits for what?" I was near the trapdoor. I could kick it open, and disappear down it— and what? Kreacher could hold the door before I even touched it. House-elf magic worked particularly well on inanimate household objects. Preventing a door from opening would be child's play for him.

"Kreacher waits for you to come here, away from the other elveses that watches you." He had a hungry gleam in his eye that I didn't like. I didn't like any of this, actually.

He must have been talking about something with the wards. According to legend, this room was outside the Hogwarts wards, which meant that the Hogwarts elves had no idea what was happening in this room, and that this room was open to forms of transportation the rest of the castle wasn't. I could apparate out, then, if I needed to.

"I've left the castle plenty recently. For fuck's sake, I was in your  _house_  only a few weeks ago. Why bring me here?" I could feel sweat trickling down my spine, even through the chill. I was afraid, truly truly afraid. But of what? A house-elf?

"Too risky, too risky," Kreacher tutted. "When they found you, they would know it was Kreacher. Best to find somewhere hidden. Where no one will ever come."

Merlin, he was going to murder me. Had any Slytherins ever been murdered by a house-elf before? Probably a few, to be quite honest, given the temperament of the average Slytherin. But I had no desire whatsoever to join their ranks.

Ironic, really. As if death by calming draught was so much better. When this was over, I'd need to take a good, hard look at what my life had become.

I could apparate, I reminded myself. I could leave at any time. I could leave right now. I should have. But my curiosity got the better of me.

"Why do you want to kill me?" I asked hoarsely, the words struggling past my lips. I didn't want to die, I didn't want to die, I didn't want to—

"He doesn't know," Kreacher muttered to himself in amazement. "The traitor doesn't know."

"Why do you want me dead?" I asked again. I gripped my wand tightly in my hand. Would I be able to apparate quickly enough if Kreacher tried something? Would I even see it coming?

He was a  _house-elf_ , for Merlin's sake. But did that really mean what I thought it did?

"The traitor doesn't know. The traitor doesn't  _know_!" Kreacher screeched. "The traitor killed Master Regulus and he says he doesn't  _know_!"

That was unexpected. "What?" I asked, stunned. "I didn't kill Regulus. Of course I didn't."

"The Dark Lord may have cast the spell, but the traitor is the one who killed him!"

"I would never have hurt him!" I shouted back, fear turning into anger. "Regulus was— I never would have hurt him," I finished quietly.

"The traitor lies! The traitor lies!" Kreacher wailed. "How else could the Dark Lord have known? Kreacher didn't tell! Who else told? Who else told!"

"Told what?" I asked, bewildered.

Kreacher huffed impatiently. "The traitor must know!" he complained. "How can the traitor not know? The traitor does not remember?" He sounded horrified by my ignorance.

"Then tell me," I said through gritted teeth. I was tiring of this farce. I couldn't tell if Kreacher genuinely intended to kill me, or if he'd simply gone completely senile in his old age. I should just leave. Why wasn't I leaving?

"Master Regulus worked for the Dark Lord, he did," Kreacher started. His voice had a far-off quality to it, as if he was reciting something from memory. "The Dark Lord asked of him a special favour. The Dark Lord had a task, a most gruesome task indeed…"

And so Kreacher told me everything. He told me how the Dark Lord had requested a house-elf for a lethal errand, and how Regulus had asked Walburga, and she had told him to take Kreacher.

Kreacher told me how the Dark Lord had taken him to a cave, carved into a cliffside, accessible only by sea. The cave had been dark, and filled with the dead, but the Dark Lord had brought Kreacher to a tiny island in the centre of it, with a single basin in the centre.

The basin had been filled with poison, and the Dark Lord had forced Kreacher to drink every last sip.

Kreacher spoke of the horrors he'd seen while under the influence of the drug. He told me how he'd seen his mother, dying slowly of an illness even magic couldn't fix. He told me how he'd seen Walburga cut off his sister's head after she'd burnt breakfast. And he told me how he'd seen Regulus, offering him up to the Dark Lord.

But the poison wasn't lethal. Being trapped in that cave would have been, but the Dark Lord hadn't protected it against house-elf magic.

The Dark Lord had left Kreacher in that cave to die, but Kreacher had apparated out, and had gone straight to Regulus.

Regulus, who'd cried when he saw the elf, alive and whole… Regulus had always been too soft, too kind, but I'd always found that was rather the point of him.

Kreacher told him everything, and Regulus had decided then and there that he would stand against the Dark Lord in whatever way he could.

Poor, stupid Regulus. Out of all the atrocities he'd seen, it had been cruelty to a house-elf that finally made him snap.

"But the Dark Lord knew! The Dark Lord knew what Master Regulus did!" Kreacher wailed, his story coming to an end. "Someone told! The traitor told!"

"I didn't tell!" I protested. "I didn't even  _know_. I didn't know any of this!"

"The traitor claims ignorance," Kreacher muttered to himself. "The traitor still lies."

"I'm not lying!" I yelled, the defence of liars everywhere. I had no proof. How could I? "I didn't— I  _never_  would have betrayed him."

"The traitor lies! The traitor lies! The traitor must be punished!"

"Wait—" I shouted, but it was too late. Kreacher threw his hands up, and I felt magic sizzle through the air.

I sank to my knees, forced down by the weight suddenly on my shoulders. The room grew dark and hazy, like a thick cloud of black smoke that had blocked off all the light.

Through the smoke, a figure appeared.

"Sev, what did you do?" the figure asked. I knew that voice— I'd know it anywhere.

"Reg?" I whispered, trying to peer through the fog, trying to get a better look— what had Kreacher done? What magics had he invoked?

"What did you do, Severus?" the figure repeated, stepping closer to me. I still couldn't make out his face, no matter how hard I tried. My mind shouted at me to look for Kreacher, but I could only look at the figure that was surely Regulus. How could he be here? Was it truly him?

"Reg, please," I begged, my hands clasped in front of me in a prayer. "I miss you, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, I promise, I'm so sorry." I was desperate, desperate to see him, desperate to touch him. I reached out a hand, but he pulled away from me. "Please," I begged again, despair creeping into my words. "Please come back, please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I promise!"

"Severus, how could you?" the figure of Regulus asked, his voice endlessly sad. He was disappointed in me. I'd let him down. I hadn't protected him well enough, hadn't been the person he'd needed me to be. He was disappointed, he was  _disappointed_ —

My head felt hot; stuffy and slow. "Please come back," I entreated. "Regulus, _please_." The figure took another step back, and it felt like I was losing him all over again. The pain ripped through my heart like an earthquake, tearing apart the very essence of who I was. It seeped into the cracks in my armour, wriggling deep inside until it resided in my very soul.

"I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" a different voice suddenly said, tearing through the dense fog.

I blinked, and the image wavered— through it I could see Kreacher, bound in some sort of rope.

The image shuddered— the Dark Lord was standing in the same spot Regulus was, and I could see the two figures in my mind's eye superimposed upon each other.

And then there was a scream, and the image shattered.

It was my scream, I realised, my throat raw. My eyes were sticky with tears. I could feel them tugging at my eyelids every time I blinked.

The Dark Lord slowly lowered his hands from his ears. "Are you quite done?" he asked crossly.

I couldn't answer. I was on all fours on the floor, panting as if I'd just run up all the stairs in the castle.

"Hmm," I heard the Dark Lord say, and watched him slowly pace around the room. He drifted towards Kreacher, and carefully inspected the bound elf. "Why did you attack Severus?"

"The traitor!" Kreacher shrieked, struggling. "The traitor sold Mater Regulus to the Dark Lord! The traitor is the reason Master Regulus is dead!"

With a jolt, I realised that Kreacher had no idea that the Dark Lord was currently wearing Potter's body.

"Fascinating," the Dark Lord said blandly.

Had it just been an illusion? Had Regulus really been here? If he was here— could he come back? I needed to explain—

"I'm afraid you've got it all wrong," the Dark Lord tutted. "I don't think Severus here sold out Regulus to the Dark Lord at all." He was clearly amused even by the thought.

"The traitor has guilt!" Kreacher protested, struggling against his bonds. "Or the spell would not've worked! The traitor must be guilty!"

Would Kreacher bring him back? Could he? If I could just apologise again, apologise better— I'd explain everything, Regulus would have to forgive me—

"Please," the Dark Lord scoffed, effortlessly twirling his wand through his fingers. "Severus feels guilty about everything. That doesn't mean anything at all."

"The traitor has guilt!" Kreacher shrieked again, too lost to his madness to comprehend what the Dark Lord was saying.

"Well, this is getting tedious," the Dark Lord commented lightly, and raised his wand. A green ray of light burst from his wand and hit Kreacher's chest.

Kreacher's form stilled suddenly, slumping forward in its bonds. He looked different in some indecipherable way; perhaps it was a paling of his skin, or a sudden relaxation of his muscles.

It didn't matter. I didn't need the details to know that he was dead.

He was dead. Regulus was gone. I would never be able to explain myself.

"Great, now that that's over…" The Dark Lord reached down and pulled me to my feet.

I wasn't ready to be vertical. I teetered, leaning heavily on the Dark Lord's smaller frame.

"What is this place?" the Dark Lord asked, trying to push me onto my own feet again.

"The Belfry of Balarin Bane," I answered, lost in a daze.

"Fascinating. You actually found it?"

"Yes."

"Well, good show." The Dark Lord had an ominous gleam in his eye, but I was too distracted to pay it much attention.

We walked through the corridors, aimlessly drifting. I was vaguely leading us in the direction of my quarters, but truthfully I wasn't sure I wanted to return there. The idea of sitting in the dreary dungeon rooms was depressing. Where else could I go? I had nowhere else.

"He was right, though," the Dark Lord commented off-hand.

"Right about what?" I asked absently, my mind still spinning; tripping over itself and falling down.

"I did kill Regulus because of you."

I stopped short, and the Dark Lord took another step before pausing and turning back to me. He gave me a sly look.

"What?" I whispered, my voice shaky.

"You didn't know?" he asked innocently. "I never knew he betrayed me. I didn't discover his deception until I found that locket in Sirius' house."

I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe.

The Dark Lord inspected his nails idly, then looked back up at me.

"I killed him because you loved him."


	19. Harry Learns to Stage a Show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, and then an epilogue. We're almost done.

Dolores Umbridge stood in front of me in the hallway.

I hadn't had a real conversation with her since before Christmas break. She'd been mad at me then and, judging by her expression, she was still mad at me now.

I didn't have the energy for this. Between the events in the belfry yesterday, and having to run classes today, I was spent.

What was she angry about? Was she still angry over not being invited to the staff Christmas party? There were so many possibilities. Had she found out about Potter's presence in my quarters? Our numerous trips out of the castle together? Or perhaps the incident on Friday where my negligence had seen a student almost die?

"Severus," she said coldly.

"Dolores," I replied, trying to infuse warmth into my town. "It's so nice to talk to you again." Why was I doing this? What purpose could it possibly have? Was I not playing with fire, risking her affection for me once more returning? Perhaps part of me thought I might still be able to win Albus over again. That if I performed well enough, if I jumped high enough, I'd be able to return things to the way they once were.

My desperation must have shown on my face, for her expression softened. "How have you been?" she asked tenderly, looking conflicted.

"Not well," I admitted truthfully. "Yourself?"

"I've been better," Umbridge admitted, with a slight smile. "Severus, could we… could we chat?"

Why the fuck not. "Of course," I murmured instead, and we ducked into an unused classroom and closed the door behind us.

We stared at each other in silence from across the classroom. What did she want from me? Why was I even here?

"I'm still mad at you," she finally said, although she didn't look particularly mad.

"I'm sorry," was the only thing I could think to say.

"Do you even know why I'm mad?"

I didn't, actually, and she must have seen the uncertainty on my face, for she sighed deeply.

"I know about the staff Christmas party," she confessed.

Fine, then. That meant she didn't know about Potter. Although why she was still angry at something that happened over a month ago was beyond me.

"I don't care that I wasn't invited."  _That_ was unexpected. "But why didn't you tell me about it? I thought we were—" she fell silent, looking vaguely embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," I apologised again. "I didn't want to upset you. The party was so utterly miserable that I thought it for the best you didn't have to suffer it as well." That was… sort of true, actually.

"Oh Severus," she sighed. Why did people keep saying my name like that? Albus, the Dark Lord, and now Umbridge… It was driving me mad.

"Can you ever forgive me?" I asked. I was thankful the door was shut. If someone saw me like this, I would be mortified.

Umbridge looked hesitant.

"Please?" I was laying it on a little thick, with the best romantically devastated expression I could come up with, but it seemed to work, for Umbridge visibly melted.

"Of course I can," she murmured, and crossed the room to take my hand. Her hands were disgustingly clammy.

Umbridge was short, and from my vantage point of towering over her, I could see all the little pins she used to keep her massive pink bow in place. She was a travesty of a human being.

"I missed you so much," she told me quietly. "You've seemed so sad lately, and it's been torture to keep away from you." Torture of her own devising, I decided not to point out.

Umbridge was a terrible person. She was cruel and vicious, concerned only with her own ambitions. She mistreated the students, and she couldn't teach to save her life.

"Please Severus, tell me what's wrong. I want to help." She craned her neck backwards so that she could look up at me. It was the most sincere I'd ever seen her.

She was a horrible person— but then again, so was I.

"It's Albus and Minerva," I told her. "They've accused me of behaving inappropriately with a student with only the most circumstantial of evidence. I've been a professor here for a decade now, and yet  _still_ they don't respect my professional integrity. As if I would ever behave in such a way! Why don't they see that?" My voice came out as more of a whine, but Umbridge cooed and patted my hand consolingly.

"The headmaster has obviously gone senile," she said, and despite myself, I smiled.

"It does seem that way, doesn't it."

"And the deputy headmistress has a tendency to act first and think second," Umbridge continued.

"That's very astute," I said in amazement. When had Umbridge gotten such a good read on the castle and its inhabitants?

" _I'm_ very astute," she corrected with a smile.

"Yes, you are," I replied.

We were holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes— normally I would have wanted to retch from how uncomfortably romantic it was, but I was finding that I could bear the forced intimacy better than usual. I had so few allies at the moment. Correction: I had no allies. Even the Dark Lord, who'd so gently told me he wanted me to live—

I couldn't dwell on it. If I thought about it too much, I would surely drown myself in the nearest bottle.

But Umbridge… She didn't  _want_  anything from me. I had nothing I could offer her. Instead, she just… she liked me. She liked me for who I was (or who she thought I was) with no strings attached. She hadn't ever asked anything of me, other than to include her in my life.

Which, since it didn't really include anyone else at the moment, was something I could accommodate.

"What else is wrong?" she asked, watching as my expression twisted with my thoughts.

When was the last time someone had asked me that, and truly meant it? I couldn't even remember.

So I told her. Everything was heavily edited, of course— I could hardly tell her the truth. But I told her about the pressure I'd been under from everyone who wanted something from me. I told her about my guilt over everyone I'd lost. I told her about how I'd started drinking again, unable to stop myself, and how through my own negligence I'd gotten a student injured.

The last part had been especially risky, given the way she'd been itching to sack people, but never once did her sympathetic expression waver. She listened, as I explained my woes and my fears and after I finished she gave my hand a tight squeeze.

Suddenly desperate, I squeezed back.

And for a moment— things felt like they might turn out okay after all.

* * *

Umbridge and I talked all evening. We shared stories of terrible colleagues we'd had, trading back and forth until we could hardly speak for laughing.

It was true that many of Umbridge's stories revealed herself as petty, jealous, and ruthlessly ambitious— but I'd used up all my loathing on myself, and I found I didn't have any left for her.

Besides which, she'd revealed herself to have quite the sharp tongue. Her estimations of her colleagues in the Ministry matched my own perception of the Ministry surprisingly well.

"Why do you stay there?" I'd asked at one point, after another story of an incompetent colleague fucking things up.

Umbridge had smiled at me, amusement clear in her eyes. "Probably the same reason you stay here," she teased. I highly doubted that, but I suppose I couldn't be sure.

"Because you hate yourself?"

She batted my arm lightly. " _No_ , silly. Because everywhere is terrible. Better the terrible you know you can live with, right?"

Her words left me speechless. Once more, I was taken aback by her astuteness— and was left feeling off-kilter because of it.

"But you know  _you_  don't have to stay here, right?" she asked earnestly, her eyes searching my face. For what, I didn't know.

"Don't I?" I asked darkly.

"You could come work at the Ministry. They're always looking for skilled potions researchers."

I scoffed. "I have no patience for politics."

Umbridge smirked. Apparently she'd already noticed that. "There are positions where you wouldn't have to deal with politics much. Certainly less than you do here."

"Doing what?" I asked curiously. I knew the Ministry employed researchers in various capacities, but with my background I'd never even considered applying for a Ministry job.

Umbridge hesitated. "I'm afraid I don't know too many details," she said apologetically. "Potions was never my strong suit. I know there are many people doing safety testing, people who decide standards for various regulations regarding potions ingredients and equipment. And I know they must create potions as well, because we have many in-house potions patents."

That was interesting. I tended not to pay attention to  _where_  different potions researchers were located, instead looking only at their discoveries. Perhaps it was time to look into where the newest discoveries were coming from, and how much the Ministry was actually contributing.

"I will have to look into it," I said. Not quite a promise, but not a dismissal either.

Umbridge looked pleased. "Good. Once I'm back at the Ministry—"

"You're leaving?" I exclaimed, and was immediately mortified. Umbridge simply smiled at me, however, unconcerned with my embarrassment.

"Eventually," she chuckled. "Once the headmaster's gone and Hogwarts has been brought up to proper standards, there's certainly no reason for me to stay here. I'm not sure if you know this," she added in a conspiratorial tone. "But I actually hate children."

That brought a reluctant chuckle from me. I didn't think she'd actually manage to remove Albus from his position, or change  _anything_  about the educational practices here. Albus would obviously come out ahead like he always did, and if by some twist of fate he couldn't manage, surely the Dark Lord would step in.

With that in mind, I found myself ultimately unconcerned by what she did with Hogwarts. It would all be temporary, and what did I care if the students learned defence? The only thing they were in danger of now was failing their exams.

Eventually, Dolores and I parted ways, and I returned to my quarters lost in thought.

Could I truly leave Hogwarts? I genuinely hated most of my students, and teaching had become a special sort of hell for me. Truthfully, I did like the safety aspect of it — trying to predict when a potion would explode was always exciting — and an opportunity to spend my time with  _potions_  instead of people sounded amazing.

It didn't take much research to see that Umbridge was right, either. There were a few different potions institutes funded by the Ministry. One was devoted to safety testing and managing regulations; another worked at thoroughly testing and understanding the properties of all the possible potions ingredients. Many people worked with multiple institutes, as well.

My research background wasn't particularly exciting, since so much of my workload was devoted to teaching, but I'd made a few solid breakthroughs and had some mild notoriety in the field. Teaching at Hogwarts, of course, also came with its own prestige.

For the first time in my life, the future actually seemed like it had potential. With the elder Dark Lord gone, Albus would have no reason to force me to stay.

But the younger Dark Lord… the one I was so carefully not thinking about… Could I truly leave Hogwarts to his mercy?

There was a knock on my door. A quick glance at my watch informed me that it was near midnight, far too late to be receiving guests.

Of course, I knew who it would be. I walked over to the door slowly, my feet reluctant to move forward even as I mentally urged them.

I didn't have a choice. I had to open the door.

The door opened before I could reach it, and the Dark Lord stared at me in surprise.

"I was delayed," I said, answering his unspoken question.

The Dark Lord let himself in and closed the door behind him. I didn't know how he consistently managed to get past my wards. But there wasn't really any point in asking.

"It's time," the Dark Lord announced.

"Time for what?" I asked blankly.

The Dark Lord smirked at me. "Time for Harry Potter to defeat Lord Voldemort once and for all."

"Right now?" I asked in alarm, glancing at my watch again. Would anyone even be at the Ministry still?

The Dark Lord sighed. "No, not  _right_  now. We want to time it so that the big confrontation happens just as people are arriving for work. But in the meantime, we have lots of preparation to do."

So it was to be a sleepless night then. Wonderful. "Very well, Harry," I offered. I hoped using his given name would put him in a benevolent mood. I always got more impertinent when I was tired, and I was already off to a rough start.

Speaking of which… I pulled a pepper up out of my desk and took a careful sip. Ah… That was the ticket. I offered some to the Dark Lord, but he merely shook his head bemusedly. I stowed the vial in my cloak. I would likely need it as the night progressed.

The Dark Lord and I left the castle, invisible underneath Potter's legendary magical artefact. We went to Malfoy Manor first, to collect Lucius and the Dark Lord's body.

Lucius had been doing an adequate job, faking the elder Dark Lord's continued existence. Certainly no one suspected the truth, although the truth was so ludicrous that I wasn't sure any would ever suspect it.

There'd been a brief meeting the other day, where the apparent Dark Lord had listened to reports and fired off a few torture curses. Lucius had supposedly been on an errand, but in fact had been orchestrating the whole thing under the control of the Dark Lord.

Perhaps it would have been easier for the Dark Lord to fake his own presence himself, but he hadn't wanted to get too close to the situation, just in case.

Lucius led us silently to one of the guest bedrooms, where the Dark Lord's body was laid out on the bed, arms crossed on his chest. I flinched at the sight, unable to help myself.

The Dark Lord walked over to the body and inspected it thoroughly. The inspection made me uncomfortable, but I did my best not to show it.

Lucius was no help, standing there like the empty puppet he was. His gaze was perfectly blank, staring off into the distance at nothing. I would have thought that I would feel some pang of loss looking at him, but instead I felt nothing. Lucius had made his bed, and he was lying in it. Of course, I supposed I was hardly one to talk. I was a puppet in all but name. The Dark Lord didn't even  _need_  to curse me, so sure was he of my loyalty.

He was  _very_  sure, actually. But why? Because I'd signed a contract not to reveal his secrets? That didn't mean—

"It'll do," the Dark Lord finally said. "The stasis charms have held nicely, and unless the people inspecting the body have a great deal of highly specific dark arts knowledge, the traces of the spells will be completely lost amongst all the other dark magic."

"Are we to head to the Ministry now?" I asked.

"Not yet. I need to make it look as if I've killed him with light magic."

Was the Dark Lord even capable of casting light magic? He seemed to sense the doubt in my face, for he continued:

"My elder counterpart would have been incapable of any light magic, inhabiting a body constructed of dark magic as he did. However, I'm now a natural-born human being."

"What about the dark rituals you performed?" I asked curiously. Did those not corrupt the body?

"Inconsequential," the Dark Lord shrugged. "While they may have added some dark magic to my system, they didn't burn away any of my light magic." He paused for a moment, considering his words. "That's actually not how it works at all, but it's a good enough analogy for our needs. In reality, there isn't really much of a different between light magic and dark magic, since they're all the same magic, but merely cast into a different form. Regardless, put simply: there's plenty of light magic in this body to let me wield it. No need to worry." He tossed me a charming grin. It looked better than it had last week. Had he been practicing?

I watched in amazement as the Dark Lord infused his body with  _raw_  light magic. I'd never seen anything of the sort before, and it was truly spectacular. He seemed to glow from within, and that glow slowly spread from his body to his other body, encapsulating the corpse with a pulsing silver light.

"What is that?" I breathed, enchanted by the sight in front of me.

"Magic," the Dark Lord replied simply, and grinned over at me in delight.

I didn't press for a better answer, and the Dark Lord didn't offer. Instead, he returned to whatever he was doing to the corpse, and smiled grimly as the glow eventually faded from view.

"Now for the fun part."

The Dark Lord spent about an hour talking to Lucius and making plans for the Ministry. The idea was to retrieve the prophecy from the Department of Ministries, and claim that the elder Dark Lord had gone to the Ministry to retrieve it. Harry Potter would stage a heroic intervention, only to see the prophecy smashed in the process (publicly, of course, thus revealing the full prophecy to everyone). Then Harry Potter would kill the Dark Lord.

I wasn't entirely sure why the prophecy needed to be involved, but the Dark Lord seemed to think it important. Perhaps he intended to claim his sudden magical prowess had come from the prophecy. That would wrap everything up neatly.

The Ministry was empty when we arrived. Lucius' wand got us through the entry point, since he had full-time access.

We rode the elevator to the Department of Mysteries in silence. I was exhausted, and the whole evening was starting to take on a dream-like quality.

The Dark Lord apparently knew how to enter, for the door gave him no trouble, and he led us into a large circular room with doors all around.

"Stay here, Severus," the Dark Lord instructed, as he and Lucius disappeared through the door across from us.

I had no time to protest, and was soon left alone in the large, empty room.

I stood uncertainly in the silence, wondering if I should be doing anything in particular, before I suddenly realised it  _wasn't_  silent. Not completely.

Although it was muffled, I could just make out a steady, rhythmic… dripping sound.

My heart raced, although I was uncertain why. The sound of dripping unnerved me terribly.

I peered closer at the door the sound seemed to be coming from. It was a plain black door, no different than any of the others. It was firmly closed, and I didn't sense any heat radiating from it. Truly it seemed unremarkable, if not for the fact that it was within the Department of Mysteries.

Suddenly, I heard a door slam behind me.

I whirled around, but the room was still empty— all the doors still closed.

The dripping sound was louder now, drumming its pattern onto my brain. I had to know what was making the sound.

Didn't I?

Surely I did.

Why would I? What it was must be dangerous, since we were in the Department of Mysteries.

_Mysteries_ , not dangers. Didn't I need to know?

The dripping sound forced its way into my ears, beating a path to my very heart. I could  _feel_  my heart pound in time to the sound.

There was a crashing sound from behind me, but I ignored it.

I needed to know. I needed to  _know_. My fingers brushed the doorknob, and the shock of the cold metal made me pause.

What was I doing?

Drip. Drip… Drip.

My fingers tightened around the handle and I wrenched the door open.

It was a rough, stone room. The ceiling was high but the room itself was narrow, with a long counter set up on one side, and a door on the other end.

I couldn't see anything that could be causing the noise, but I could still hear it. And not only hear it, I could feel the vibrations as well through the soles of my boots.

The counter was covered in an assortment of papers and various research paraphernalia, but I didn't stop to inspect anything. I slowly walked through the room, trying to pinpoint the location of the sound.

Was it just over there? There was an empty basin that looked sort of like a pensieve, except bigger. Or behind that cardboard box, lying empty on its side?

The sound was echoing through the room now, making it hard to pinpoint where exactly it was coming from.

Surely I should be able to  _see_  what was making the noise? It must be close, perhaps even—

The door behind me slammed shut, and the room plunged into darkness. My instincts kicked in, and I dropped to the floor as quietly as I could, before crawling softly away from where I'd been.

I listened carefully, but I couldn't hear anything other than that maddening dripping sound. I clenched my wand in my fist, and silently cast the spell on myself that allowed me to see souls.

Strange, how quick I'd been to dismiss the spell as harmless frivolity. This was the second time it'd come in handy in a serious situation.

All I saw was a faint light coming from the counter. (And what the fuck did that mean?) There didn't seem to be anyone in the room, but it was possible that I couldn't see anything because no one was within my line of sight. In theory, the spell should work in the dark as well (as long as line of sight wasn't blocked), but I supposed I didn't actually know for sure.

The dripping sound was getting louder, I realised. Was it getting closer? I couldn't hear anything, other than—

Breathing. Not my own.

I cast a silencing spell on myself, necessary as I found myself suddenly unable to calm my  _own_  breathing properly. I was tempted to cast a  _Finite_  into the room and perhaps catch someone, but in a room that was being used for magical research, that was quite the risk.

Instead, I crawled over to where the other door had been in my memory. I needed to leave this room.

The feel of the door under my fingertips almost led me to tears. I reached up carefully, feeling for the handle.

All the while, my ears strained listening for whatever else was in the room with me. The sounds, however, remained the same: a steady drip, with the quiet rasp of an inhale and exhale underneath.

As soon as the handle was within my grasp, I pulled the door open, slipped through, and shut it behind me. A series of locking charms and a  _Lumos_  later found me in a stone corridor, even narrower than the chamber, that stretched beyond the light of my wand.

The dripping sound was no longer audible. Instead, there was the slow scratch of  _something_  on the door behind me.

My breathing had increased rapidly now, still silent under the weight of the charm. I added every locking charm I could think of to the door, before giving up and sprinting down the corridor.

My lungs burned; my legs ached. When was the last time I'd run like this, full out with no hesitation?

The hallway stretched on, decorated with nothing and containing no doors leading off. Where  _was_  I? I ran until I tired myself out, and then slowed to a jog.

And yet still, the corridor stretched on.

Merlin, I must have been deep within the Department of Mysteries. Who knew what sorts of horrors were down here, just waiting for unsuspecting fools like me to stumble into them.

Unspeakables, they were called. Was that because the things they faced were too terrible to speak about?

What sort of beast had been in that room? Silent and not attacking, instead just waiting.

Where did this corridor lead? Why was it empty?

I raised my wand higher, peering ahead in front of me trying to see anything other than the same stone walls. Nothing. I looked behind me, and the same exact sight greeted me.

I looked between the two sides, suddenly disconcerted. What was I doing here? Why had I run? I  _thought_  I'd heard some sort of creature, but I'd never even bothered checking.

Slowly, I walked back the way I'd come, trying to piece together my thoughts. My head ached something fierce, and I wanted nothing more than a good cup of tea. I felt— lighter, perhaps? Except that wasn't right, because I felt horrible, like I'd been beaten up by a herd of pixies. Why would I feel  _lighter_?

The door was exactly how I'd left it, hastily erected wards and all. I dismissed them with a wave of my wand, the wards easily recognising their creator.

I lit my wand extra bright, and then swung the door open.

The room was empty, the door on the other side of it open, just as I'd left it.

I walked into the room slowly, peering around at everything. I had no idea what had caused my delirium, but it was probably unwise to linger.

Perhaps I was merely overtired. I pulled the pepper up from my pocket and raised the vial to my lips to sip.

"Severus!" the Dark Lord called from the other room, startling me into letting the vial slip from my fingers. It fell onto the counter and spilled onto a small pile of stones. Why the fuck were there  _stones_  here? This place was a fucking nightmare.

"What the fuck are you doing in there?" he called from the other room. My nerves were running ragged at this point, and my hands were shaking. I glanced down at the sodden rocks and swept the whole pile into my pocket.

I regretted it the second I started for the door, but by then the Dark Lord had spotted me and it was too late. I didn't care, however— I'd become distracted by the thunderous expression on the Dark Lord's face.

"What the hell?" he demanded. Had he always cursed so much? I couldn't remember. My hands were still shaking.

"I'm not—" I started, but cut myself off. How could I explain? "There was a dripping noise," I said weakly.

The Dark Lord frowned at me, and then peered into the room behind me. His eyebrows raised. "Only you," he snorted derisively.

"What?" I asked, bewildered.

"Severus, I think you of all people know that your occlumency skills are impeccable. Truly, extraordinary."

"Thank you," I muttered, completely clueless as to where this was going.

" _But_ ," the Dark Lord continued, as if I hadn't said anything. "They're also incomplete. You've spent so much effort protecting your conscious mind, that you haven't protected your subconscious at all."

My  _subconscious_? What idiocy was this? The subconscious was so far deep in one's mind, there was simply no way it could be accessed by an outsider. That was a fundamental tenant of the mind arts. "I didn't realise the subconscious could be accessed by others," I said diplomatically, although I was sure my skepticism was clear in my voice.

The Dark Lord rolled his eyes. "Just because something is fiendishly difficult doesn't make it impossible. All these scholars— they see something that they can't do, that they haven't  _seen_  anyone do, and they write it off without ever actually sitting down and considering the matter with an objective mind. Fools, the lot of them, and I can't believe you would let yourself be taken in."

That stung, rather deeply actually. "I don't see what that has to do with this room," I replied stiffly.

"There's something in here that emits a signal that can only be picked up by the subconscious. It plays off of whatever's in your mind at the moment, and brings it to life."

A strange dripping noise and a mysterious creature I couldn't see? The Dark Lord hadn't alleviated my skepticism at all.

"Why aren't you affected?" I asked, somewhat crossly.

"You seem to be more susceptible to unconscious influences than most."

That seemed potentially problematic,  _if_  I was willing to believe that what the Dark Lord was saying was true. Sure, he was a genius, but no one could be brilliant at  _everything_. Perhaps the mind arts were his weakness. He'd never broken through my occlumency shields, after all. "Why might that be the case?"

The Dark Lord had a strangely mischievous glint in his eye as he shrugged. "Genetics, most likely," he replied, with a slight quirk of his lips.

That seemed to settle the matter, for he grabbed his body and Lucius and we retreated back into the corridor leading towards the elevator.

I was glad to put that whole mess behind me. I glanced at my watch, and found that it was nearly  _four_. "It's almost four," I said stupidly, accompanied by an idiotic gasp.

"Yes," the Dark Lord confirmed, looking back at me in amusement. "Were you too wrapped up in your dreams to notice the time passing?"

I supposed that was possible. Dreams had a way of warping time. Is that what that had been? Something of a waking dream? Was any of it real?

"What do we do now?" I asked, ignoring his question. It was probably rhetorical, anyway.

"Now, I put the finishing touches on our little theatre, and you wait patiently."

I stifled a yawn. Would the Dark Lord allow me a nap? That seemed risky, but I was beyond tired.

I glanced over at the Dark Lord, and he met my gaze with a smile.

As it turned out, he  _did_  allow me a nap.

* * *

The Dark Lord's plan  _worked_. It seemed blasphemous to say I was surprised, but I found that I rather was. It's not that I'd doubted him— it's just that the whole plan was so outlandish that I just hadn't believed it could actually work.

But it did.

At seven thirty in the morning, the first few Ministry officials had arrived to find the alarms blaring, and Harry Potter engaging what looked like the Dark Lord in an epic duel.

Word had quickly spread. The alarms brought the arrival of the top-ranking officials, but those few Ministry lackeys who'd stumbled on the duel had brought the arrival of countless more idiots who'd been too skeptical to resort to common sense.

The Ministry atrium had soon become packed, and then soon after that: utter chaos. People everywhere were screaming that the Dark Lord had returned, and Fudge was right in the middle of it, faced with undeniable proof that he'd been wrong all these months.

Then Harry Potter had stumbled. Whereas before he'd been holding his own, mostly through a string of good luck and quick thinking, the arrival of such a large crowd had thrown him off, and he'd accidentally shattered the prophecy he'd been protecting.

The whole atrium had heard everything (aided by a subtle  _Sonorus_ charm), and had watched in awe as Harry Potter had somehow rallied, calling on some inner power of truth and love and beauty and all that rot and summoned the purity of heart to be able to banish the evil once and for all.

At least, that was the story Lucius had whispered in a few key ears. After that, the story had spread like wildfire.

It had been complete chaos. Aurors had spent the morning investigating the scene, interviewing witnesses, and keeping an eye on Potter. The Unspeakables had taken the Dark Lord's body for verification. A little after noon, they announced their findings: it was indisputably You-Know-Who, and You-Know-Who was indisputably dead.

The papers had printed a special edition that afternoon, completely turning their stance around and proclaiming Harry Potter as some sort of second coming of Merlin. Fudge had immediately put Potter's name down for an Order of Merlin, first class, and was doing everything in his power to save face in what had quickly become an embarrassing blow to his platform.

I'd spent the day in processing. I hadn't been accused of anything, but I'd been interviewed as a witness three times already.

Albus hadn't made an appearance all day. Which meant that it was with great trepidation that I finally returned to the castle once evening had come along. (Thankfully, I was in time for dinner. I was absolutely starving.)

The Dark Lord wasn't with me. Nymphadora had turned up to collect him, and shuffled him back to Grimmauld Place. I desperately wanted to speak to him, but I wasn't sure what about. I felt— untethered, adrift amongst a sea of madness and I needed something  _real_  to cement my place to the Earth. Even if that meant relying on the Dark Lord.

I needn't have worried, however. A house-elf accosted me as soon as I entered the castle, and directed me to the headmaster's office.

Albus would have Potter, and my name would be cleared. Albus would understand that we'd been working on something that would end the war— of course there would be a few late nights in my quarters or out of the castle. All's well that ends well, everything wrapped up tidy in a neat little bow.

Gods, I was tired. My nap had been two hours at most, and my day had been packed with activity. I was about to fall over with exhaustion.

Albus was alone when I entered his office. He was sitting at his desk, hands clasped quietly in front of him. He looked at me when I entered, a strange expression on his face. He looked forlorn, perhaps? I was having trouble reading him.

"Severus, sit down," he said, nodding to the chair in front of his desk.

I walked slowly over to the chair and sat, the silence almost suffocating me.

"You've had a busy day, haven't you?" he said mildly.

"Yes," was the only thing I could think to say.

"How wonderful, isn't it, that Voldemort has finally been vanquished for good?"

I couldn't help it— I flinched. Albus thought his opponent gone, but he'd been playing the wrong game. The contract I'd signed merely stipulated Potter's death. With the horcruxes gone and the elder Dark Lord vanquished, did we really  _need_  Potter still? Merlin, Lily would've killed me just for thinking that.

Albus sighed, recapturing my attention. He was staring down at the table, looking older and more tired than I'd ever seen him. "I'd hoped I was wrong," he murmured to himself. "That I'd misread the signs."

"What signs?" Had he figured it out himself? I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. No longer would I be alone in this. Finally,  _finally_ , I'd be able to talk to someone.

"The occlumency lessons, the long nights, the trips out of the castle…"

Yes,  _yes_ , he'd figured it out. Thank  _Merlin,_  thank the gods, thank Filch's stupid cat—

"But I had faith in your loyalty."

I frowned. "Albus, what—"

"Severus," he said, finally looking me in the eye, a pained expression on his face. "Did you bring Harry out of the castle to force him to get the prophecy for Voldemort?"

" _What_?" I asked, completely stupefied. The weight returned in full force, settling on me like shackles. "You can't be serious!"

"I thought it strange how easily you acquiesced to the occlumency lessons, but I thought maybe you'd simply decided to leave your old boyhood grudges behind. But you hadn't, had you. You were using them to get closer to Harry— to make him trust you. All those trips out of the castle, were those failed attempts to retrieve the prophecy? Or were they for some other sinister purpose?"

"Albus, this is ridiculous!" I protested. "Talk to— talk to Potter! Ask  _him_  what we were doing!" Had the Dark Lord thrown me under the dragon? Had he decided he'd had enough of me already?

Albus shook his head. "I already have. The boy has remarkable faith in you— he was adamant that you would never do anything of the sort." Well. All right then. I felt warm at the words, much to my disgust. I was pathetic. "Whatever you did to the boy worked."

"I didn't  _do_  anything! The Dark Lord is dead, is that not what you wanted?" I recognised my mistake the second the words left my lips.

"I thought it was what  _we_  wanted," Albus whispered, his expression pained. "I thought your love for Lily would be enough to keep you with us. I suppose… I suppose I was wrong."

I couldn't believe Albus would think such a thing of me. I'd been nothing but devoted to the cause, prostrating myself to people I hated just for the barest scraps of information to pass to him. I'd never  _once_  given him reason to doubt me, and yet here we were.

"You're wrong." My voice was weak, ruined by my own feelings of guilt and the sharp sting of betrayal.

"I wish I were," Albus replied solemnly.

"Do you?" I said bitterly. "If you did, maybe you would  _think_  for a second instead of blindly accusing me without even any evidence."

Albus stayed silent. He was looking at me with such sadness, such pity, that I wanted to punch him right in his wrinkly face.

"What happens now?" I asked, after a long stretch of silence.

"As you pointed out, there is no evidence against you. Voldemort is dead, and we've been given a happy ending." Albus paused for a moment, giving me a long, considering look. "Now we go to dinner."

I wanted to yell at him, to rage and force him to see me for who I actually was, but what was the point? I was too tired to engage in another futile argument with someone I'd once considered one of my closest friends.

We walked to dinner together in silence. There wasn't anything to say.

Arriving at the Great Hall, I scanned the staff table for Umbridge. I desperately needed to talk to someone,  _anyone_ , and I found myself strangely desiring her company. She wasn't there, but perhaps she'd make an appearance later. I could also try stopping by her quarters after eating, and seeing if she could spare a few minutes.

Minerva wasn't even looking at me, so I sat down near Vector. She gave me a tight nod, and returned to her meal. What had Albus told them? And before even  _talking_  to me?

Albus reached his seat just after I sat down, but remained standing. He waved his wand to get everyone's attention, and waited as the students politely quieted down.

"As you all know, the man known as Lord Voldemort was vanquished today." That was a polite way of saying murdered. Strange, how even now he was still protecting his students.

Immediately, there was chaos. The students had clearly seen the paper, for none of them were especially surprised, but it seemed everyone had something they wanted to say on the subject. There was cheering, and crying, and the occasional skeptic shaking their head and scowling.

There was a loud bang, and the students once more fell quiet. Albus lowered his wand. "Indeed, it is truly a cause for celebration. In light of these events, however, the Ministry has removed Dolores Umbridge from the castle."

"What?" I exclaimed, but it was lost in the sudden uproar of cheering. Even my Slytherins were screaming their happiness, waving their arms like idiots and hugging each other out of sheer joy. That was it? She was just… gone? I'd never— I'd never said goodbye.

Another bang, although this time it took much longer for the students to collect themselves and quiet down again. "I will be looking for a new Defence instructor post-haste, but in the meantime, I will be filling in for her classes. I find myself with sudden free time," he added wryly, although I imagined the comment went over the heads of most people in the room. Minerva, Filius and I were the only actual Order members— although there were a few students who were aware of Albus's extracurriculars as well.

Speaking of which… amidst the students' gleeful mutterings to each other, the doors to the Great Hall flew open, and in strode none other than Harry Potter, also known as: the Dark Lord.

There was uncertain cheering. Potter had never been particularly outspoken about the Dark Lord's return, outside of Umbridge's class, at least, and after being taken over by the Dark Lord, that hadn't changed. As a result, most people assumed the rumours were false. It must have been quiet the shock to them to realise they'd been wrong all along. In the same moment, however, this time the Dark Lord  _was_ gone, which meant that to them, nothing really had changed.

Still, people love a hero, and the Dark Lord had set himself up as a grand hero indeed.

It looked like he'd won.


	20. Severus Learns to Live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the last chapter. It turns out I didn't have as much left in the story as I thought I did, so sorry it's shorter than usual.
> 
> It's been a hell of a journey. I originally had plans for a sequel, but a lot of my plans have since been scrapped, so for now any sequel is tabled. I may get around to it eventually, but my next writing project is actually an original novel, so I plan to focus on that first.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The next few days were torture.

Everyone was in a celebratory mood, except for a noticeable few. Not just Slytherins, either. Students whose parents had whispered excitedly about the Dark Lord's return, who had overheard conversations not meant for young ears. In them, you could see uncertainty: what was their fate to be, now that the world had so radically changed? What was to be the fate of their parents?

I wasn't helping, of course. Released from the shackles of being a spy (at least, in a certain respect), I'd no longer needed to cater to the whims of entitled snots. The first time I'd given detention to someone in my house, there'd been silence, followed by a few uncertain titters.

When the punishment turned out to  _not_  be a joke (although why anyone had thought I'd been joking was bizarre— I'd certainly never made a joke in class before), the Slytherins had eyed me with a horrified understanding. It was good for them, I supposed, that they finally understood who exactly I'd been. Ultimately, however, it didn't matter. In the end, they were all wrong.

This was the world now. There was no changing that.

I hadn't been dismissed from the school yet, but Albus would undoubtedly find a way to push me out. He'd all but stopped talking to me, and soon after Minerva had followed suit. The rest of the staff was continuing on as normal, but seeing how distant I was from them on a  _good_  day, that wasn't saying much.

I was disgusted by how much I missed Dolores Umbridge. She hadn't owled me at all. Had someone told her that I had been with Potter at the Ministry? Would she see that as the betrayal it was?

It was clear to me that I couldn't stay here past the end of the school year. It was long since time to move on. But to where? I had some money saved up, but it wouldn't last forever. I would need to find another the Ministry still an option for me, or would Umbridge prevent that?

Not to mention Albus. It would be difficult to get another job without his recommendation.

Merlin. I truly had no idea what I was supposed to do.

After the fourth-year Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw class, Miss Lovegood lingered. She seemed excited about something, and bounced up to the front desk, where I was lounging. (I'd long since stopped actually teaching. I knew it was deplorable, but I couldn't summon the energy to care.)

"Yes, Miss Lovegood?" I asked crisply. My relaxed posture ruined the professionalism, but alas. We couldn't have everything.

"How are the experiments going, professor?" she asked eagerly.

Fucking hell, what now? "What experiments?"

"The experiments you're doing with Harry!" she said cheerfully. "That I had to Obliviate you for!"

I closed my eyes. Of course. "They're going splendidly," I told her. When I opened my eyes, she was beaming at me.

"Be well, professor!" she called over her shoulder as she left.

Be well. Be… well… That sounded rather impossible at the moment.

I wanted to scream. Or tear a book in half. Or twist the Dark Lord's neck until his head popped off.

He'd had me  _Obliviated_. And why? Why bother? What fucking purpose did it serve?

I'd been very busy these past few months, hadn't I? So distracted with the nonsense with Kreacher and this mysterious Obliviation that I hadn't devoted any thoughts to the contract I'd signed. Was that the Dark Lord's goal? To keep me distracted?

Why  _had_  I never considered the contract, actually? I'd been busy, but not so busy I couldn't at least think about it. But my thoughts had almost never strayed in that direction.

An image flashed in my mind, of Potter holding my favourite quill, a small smirk on his lips.

Merlin, how had I forgotten?

I felt like I'd been suddenly plunged into the freezing lake. Of course I'd forgotten. The Dark Lord had  _wanted_  me to forget.

He'd said it himself— my mind was open to subconscious influences. How would he know?  _How else would he know_?

He'd been playing with my mind like a toddler plays with a toy. So unconcerned with what I might do because he  _knew_  I wouldn't do anything.

I felt the last bit of stable ground I was clinging to fall away.

What was I supposed to do now?

* * *

The Dark Lord joined me in my quarters that evening. He was smug as he walked in, a skip in his step. He didn't even knocked, just opened my door as if he belonged here.

"Why did you ask Miss Lovegood to Obliviate me?" I asked bluntly, the second the door closed behind him.

He raised his eyebrows. "Really, Severus, is that any way to greet your favourite student?"

" _She_  was my favourite student," I said, through gritted teeth.

" _Was_ ," the Dark Lord shot back with a smirk. "Until she Obliviated you."

"Which she did at your command!"

The Dark Lord inspected his fingernails. "It was easy, too, to convince her. She hardly put up a fight. So eager was she to help me, even if it meant hurting  _you_."

I felt sick. Was that what this was? Some sort of weird game?

"You've been controlling my mind," I stated. It wasn't a question. I didn't need to ask.

The Dark Lord shrugged. "I guess you could call it that," he drawled. "But I had to have some assurance that you would behave. You're rather slippery, after all." He raised an eyebrow at me. "Surely you're not  _mad_  at me? If anything, I was paying you a compliment."

"How is it a compliment?" I ground out.

"Certainly I've never had to resort to such drastic methods before. Or wanted to, you know." He tapped his chin lightly in thought. "I suppose you're just special that way."

I didn't feel special. I felt cursed.

"Why did you kill Regulus?" I asked quietly. I felt like I was in a waking dream. A nightmare, perhaps. Had I ever left the Department of Mysteries? Perhaps I was still there, trapped in the worst my subconscious could throw at me.

Although if this was my subconscious, it said a lot about me that I really didn't want to examine too closely.

"Are you still hung up on that?" the Dark Lord huffed. "It's been  _years_."

I stared at him silently.

"Oh very well. He was  _distracting_ you, Severus. You would be embarrassed now to see the way you mooned over him. As if he were the sun and you were just another planet in his orbit." The Dark Lord was almost wistful, as he spoke.

My gut wrenched. "Why did you kill Lily?" I asked with a whisper.

The Dark Lord rolled his eyes. "As if that had anything to do with you. Truly, I wouldn't have killed her if not for the prophecy."

"Why not the Longbottoms? Why choose the Potters instead?" How long had Albus poured over that question? How many times had Harry questioned the Dark Lord's decision? It was a mystery that had confounded everyone.

The Dark Lord gave me the answer. "Well, since I  _had_  to kill one of them… Do you remember how you were, Severus? When you first joined me? Fierce and firey, and full of anger. I can still see it now, the way your little fist would clench, that muscle in your jaw twitching… Yes, much like it's doing now," the Dark Lord noted in amusement.

I was  _furious_. Furious at myself, furious at him, furious at Lily for leaving me, furious at Regulus for loving me…

He continued on blithely. "And to know that someone so inconsequential managed to  _wound_  you so deeply… Truly a tragedy."

"So it was— revenge? For me?" I whispered, unable to accept the truth I was being told.

The Dark Lord snorted. "As if I cared that much about your feelings. It was  _punishment_  for being a moron. Meant to force you to grow up and let go of whatever idiotic ideals you were still clinging to." His words were harsh, but his tone was— soft, actually, and he was looking at me with a kind of intensity that made me nervous. I couldn't tell if I believed what he was saying. He had no reason to lie, I supposed, but I couldn't— I couldn't believe him.

"Did it work?" My tone was sardonic. He knew that after her death I'd pledged myself whole-heartedly to her cause.

"Not particularly." I would have thought he'd be angry, but instead he had a small smile on his face. "I suppose you turned out to be more stubborn than I expected."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that. I was still furious with him, but more than anything I hated myself. Would I destroy everything I touched? Everything that was good in my life?

"I wish you hadn't killed them." My voice was quiet, the sound almost nonexistent.

"Why?" the Dark Lord asked harshly. "Do you think your life would be better if they were still alive? Do you think you would hate yourself any less?"

Yes. No. I had no idea. "I would have liked the opportunity to find out." There wasn't any strength to my statement. The fury that had burned in me just a moment ago had bled out of the wound the Dark Lord inflicted.

We were standing in the middle of my sitting room, only a few paces away from each other. The Dark Lord still had his schoolbag slung over his shoulder. I wasn't wearing any shoes, my bare feet cold on the stone floor.

I couldn't see Potter in him, any longer. The Dark Lord's mannerisms were achingly familiar to me, from the way he twitched his lips when he was hiding a smile to the way he twirled his wand through his fingers when he was lost in thought. He'd taken over my life by storm, seeping into it like water into a dry sponge.

I'd been desperate for the acknowledgment, even as I'd withered under his tender care.

I tried to hate him, in that moment, truly I did. But the Dark Lord felt like a force of nature. You couldn't hate the dragon, for breathing fire. That's what dragons did. You hated the person who thought it a good idea to build a house out of straw.

What was I supposed to do now? Did I pretend none of this had ever happened? I'd have to pretend my whole  _life_  had never happened. It wasn't the leaves that were bad, it was the roots.

"What happens now?" I asked the Dark Lord. I felt desperate; pathetic. I wanted a neat answer that tied everything up. I wanted a reason to live, to continue my pointless existence on this pointless world.

"With my plans? Or with you?" The Dark Lord's eyes were sharp. Did he know what I was thinking? Did he see the pestilence in my soul?

"With me," I whispered, ashamed of myself beyond belief. "What do I— what am I supposed to do now? I can't stay here, I can't leave, I've got nowhere to go and I can't— I can't—"

"Shhh, Severus." The Dark Lord stepped closer to me and grabbed my hand. I winced at the contact, but didn't pull away. "You'll work for me. You don't have to stay at Hogwarts— in fact, it's better if you don't. I'll have Lucius drop some hints, get you hired by the Ministry. I'll need someone on the inside, and I imagine potions research would suit you well."

I hated the Ministry, but if I were working there to bring them down, perhaps it would be bearable. I could do work I enjoyed, for a cause I genuinely believed in. I would be free of whiny teenagers, free of Albus' disappointed stare and Minerva's perpetual scowl. I could throw myself into my passion, invent something useful to society and work with other people with a similar love for potions. Truthfully, it sounded wonderful.

The Dark Lord was still holding my hand.

"It will be tricky with me still being a student here, but I'll have no trouble slipping away when I need to. It's not like this castle can actually hold me, and—" The Dark Lord continued on, describing various plans he had, and where I fit into them. They were exceedingly thorough. I suspected Granger had been heavily involved in the planning stage. My mind was spinning, imagining my future intricately tangled up in the Dark Lord's web.

"—but I think it's possible. With your… assistance." He squeezed my hand lightly.

Realisation struck me like a bolt of lightning. Of course. Of  _course_. How had I not seen it before.

Everything I touched…

But I couldn't think on it— my mind had gone blank. I'd been hit so hard I'd been stunned into silence. It felt, for a moment, like I'd had my whole world petrified. My free hand (my wand hand), reached into my pocket, shoving the slimy stones aside to draw my wand.

_Everything I touched_ …

The Dark Lord looked down at it, then back at me, quirking his eyebrow in amusement. "What are you going to do with that?" he asked playfully.

" _Avada Kedavra_ ," I whispered.

There was a flash of green light.

The world shattered.

**The End**

* * *

**Epilogue**

Severus Snape blinked rapidly, trying to clear the spots from his vision. His wand was still gripped tightly in his shaking fist. His pocket had grown uncomfortably warm, but he had more important things to worry about at the moment.

He watched in dawning horror as the body of Harry Potter crumpled, and then fell silently to the floor. He fell to his knees, his breath coming out in short, shaky spurts. He reached over, feeling desperately for a pulse.

"Oh god, oh god," he whispered to himself over and over. He was even paler than usual, his skin practically gleaming white in the dim lighting of the dungeon quarters where he lived.

_There_. Weak, but definitely there. He let out a great shuddering sigh and sank slowly back onto his knees, staring blankly at the boy.

Then he raised his wand, and without a word cast the spell on his eyes that would allow him to see souls.

In front of him, pulsing gently, was the pure, unblemished soul of Harry Potter.

Severus felt tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "Tears of relief," he muttered to himself. "Tears of— The boy's alive. The Dark Lord is dead. He's gone. It's over. The Dark Lord is dead. The Dark Lord is—"

Potter stirred, and Severus fell silent immediately. "Professor?" The boy's voice was weak, but it was  _there_.

"You're alive," Severus repeated in amazement. "You're  _alive_ —"

Potter sat up, blinking in confusion. "He's gone?" he asked, bewildered. "But you— I thought you were—"

"Loyal?" Severus asked darkly. "To the Dark Lord, you mean?"

Potter nodded. "Er, yeah."

"Were you aware? While you were being possessed?" Even at a time like this, Severus felt his intellectual curiosity rising. Potter was the first case of a living horcrux that Severus had ever heard of (not that he knew much about horcruxes in general), and he was desperately curious to better understand the phenomenon.

"Yeah, I— Yeah." Potter fell silent for a moment, a pained expression on his face. "I think— I think he lived my life better than I did," he added quietly.

Severus would rather eat a blast-ended skrewt then get involved in Potter's emotional well-being again. He'd more than learned his lesson after the first time. "We need to get you to the headmaster," he said, standing and pulling the boy with him. "He needs to hear about this immediately."

"Wait, but— Voldemort's dead? Is it over? Just like that?"

Severus had said something to that effect just a moment ago, but found himself suddenly unsure. "The Dark Lord is clever beyond reason, and has fooled us once before. We must talk to the headmaster. He'll better understand what's happening."

"Oh, I understand!" Potter protested hotly, wrenching his arm from Severus' grasp. "You're a bloody death eater! Doing everything he asked, helping him— helping him—"

"Helping him destroy all the horcruxes?"

Potter deflated. "Well, I guess. But the rituals!" He re-inflated. "You helped him perform dark rituals on my body! And the thing— the thing in the hospital—" His face started to take on a greenish hue as the memory hit him.

"He hardly needed my help for that," Severus snapped. "He did  _that_  all on his own."

"But you  _helped_  him," Potter said, but the fire had once more gone out of his words.

"And then I  _killed_  him. Does that not count for nothing?" Severus' voice took on a pleading quality that he would have been too embarrassed to admit to. The knowledge that he'd done the right thing wasn't enough— he needed someone to tell him it would be alright, to validate the choices he'd made.

"I— Maybe," Potter finished weakly. Potter looked uncertain, and still groggy from his months of living dormant inside his own body. "He killed my parents because of you," he finally said. The words came out as no more than a whisper. The boy stared at Severus in disbelief, still trying to comprehend the enormity of everything that had happened in the last twenty minutes.

"Yes, he did," Severus replied, and closed his eyes. "I'm… I'm sorry, Potter. I've failed you unimaginably."

Harry Potter stared up at his professor. All trace of the Dark Lord's confidence was gone. Now, the boy chewed on his lip uncertainly, eyes glancing furtively around the room as if the answers would be written somewhere on the wall. "You killed him," the boy settled on. "Even though…"

"The headmaster will know what to do," Severus interrupted, and dragged Potter out the door. They walked up to the headmaster's office in silence, Severus' mind still reeling from the sudden and drastic change in direction his life had just taken. In the blink of an eye, Severus had become the  _man who'd killed the Dark Lord_.

The Dark Lord was dead.

The walk was torture. Severus felt too wound up for Potter's slow pace he was forced to match. But finally, they made it, and Severus knocked sharply on Albus' door.

The door swung open immediately, and Severus marched into the office, pulling Potter behind him.

Albus stood up from his desk, a disappointed expression on his face. "Severus, what—"

"The Dark Lord is dead," Severus interrupted, feeling the wonderful triumph of self-righteousness, which burned like firewhiskey through his veins. "The horcrux inside of Potter's head was possessing him, and forced me to keep the secret. He destroyed all his horcruxes and eliminated his other self with the intention of remaining Harry Potter for the rest of his life. He is now dead."

Albus' jaw dropped. The stunned expression on his face almost made Severus feel that all of this had been worth it. Almost. Albus slowly sank back into his seat.

"Harry? Is this true?" Albus asked weakly.

Harry nodded furiously. "He was  _in_  my  _head_ , professor. He was  _living_  my  _life_!"

Albus searched Harry's face, and then sighed. "Of course. The sudden occlumency skills— that would have been Tom, then."

"He forced me to keep his secrets, Albus," Severus said entreatingly. He was standing behind one of the armchairs across from the desk, gripping the back with white-knuckled fingers. "I never— I didn't—" But the words wouldn't come.

Albus closed his eyes. "You are not the first to fall for Tom's tricks. I never thought he might… I am sorry, Severus. Can you ever forgive me?" He opened his eyes again, and gazed at Severus pleadingly.

Severus stared at Albus for a long, cool moment. He looked uncertain, but there was a desperate glint in his eyes that spoke of someone not yet too broken to hope. "In time," he finally said.

Albus smiled wanly. "I suppose I can live with that. Now Harry, Severus: start from the beginning."

* * *

**Somewhere** **_else_ ** **…**

Severus Snape blinked rapidly, trying to clear the spots from his vision. His wand was still gripped tightly in his shaking fist.

The Dark Lord glanced at him in amusement. "Has no one taught you  _anything_?" he asked, a delicate twitch on his lips. "You have to  _mean_  it, Severus."

And somehow, despite everything, Severus Snape smiled back.


End file.
